Oh God.
Here I am again.
On the train.
Doesn't anything ever happen to me while I'm not moving? I can't seem to move ten yards without some idiot trying to get my attention.
Alright mate? Where's Trinity Street?
- Never heard of it.
Alright love? Got any change?
- Sorry. I'm running for that train!
Oi, mate? You got a light?
- No. You got any vitamin C tablets?
Do you have any coins for this machine?
- Do I look like a bank?
It's been noted many times that travel writing flourishes because the writer is in a state of transition. He is neither here, nor there, and therefore, the extra-dimensional aspect lends itself to unique experiences.
Although, in my case, I have to ask, is there such a thing as 'Commuter Writing'?
I'm on the train home. I'm trying to read my book - Limitless, by Alan Glynn. It's the second time I've read it in a year, but the 'hit' ( you'll see what I mean if you read it ), isn't the same the second time around. I should have cold-turkeyed longer, then had another go in maybe a year.
Anyway, a bunch of attractive women ( if you like shrill, orange, Stourbridge types ) invade the seats across the aisle from me. The usual: Hiroshima skin-tones, bling, dyed hair ( jet-black or platinum blonde ) plus extensions, and that ubiquitous Selfridges shopping bag.
I turn up the Ambient Himalayas on my iPod, to try and focus them out. I get into the zone: I'm at windswept base camp. My sherpas are getting me an ice cold coke. Then instantly I'm teleported back to Planet Earth, because the women suddenly start singing their karaoke favourites:
'Oooh baby, do-you know what-that's-worth? / We'll make hea-ven a pla-ace on Earth - !!
I do an Oscar-winning turn as the living embodiment of 'nonchalant', despite a good ten minutes of sonic barrage.
'Oops I-did-it-again - !!'
The CIA may want to try this the next time they have a suspected terrorist in custody. The skin colour of these chicks alone would trigger flash-backs of Guantanamo boiler-suits.
'I'm not-that-inn-o-cent - !!'
After a while, my glacial demeanor, has - I hoped - transmitted itself to their suggestible minds, and prompted them to lapse into a kind of semi-dormant, or vegetative state.
But then it happened.
'Is that Volume Two he's reading?'
Dear God. 'Volume Two'? That can only mean one thing... My book does have a similar colour scheme on the back.
'Ask him which book he's reading.'
Please. Leave me alone.
Focus on the book.
Mountain streams.
Glaciers.
The brunette nearest me leans over and taps me on the knee.
Attrition.
'Which one are you reading?' she says '- Volume One, Two or Three?'
She is, of course, referring to the housewives' current favourite: Fifty Shades of Grey erotic trilogy. Every woman on the train has a copy. And those that don't, have disguised it by reading it on those bloody e-books.
'I do not read that shit.'
'Pardon?'
The blonde next to her leans around to join in: 'They're not shit...'
I look at the one guy in their group. He's either their nephew, or younger brother, or a cheerful homosexual colleague who works at their salon. Probably called Wayne.
I bellow: 'Two thousand years of erotic literature, and they have to read THAT SHIT!'
The brunette's jaw drops open. 'Oh...Emm...Gee. How rude!'
Blonde: 'I know. Oh-emm-gee.'
The crowded train seems strangely silent.
