Apologies, oh wise ones, for my lack of attentive tippety-typing these past few cycles of pulsating tiredness we like to call days. I find myself rolling into the house quite hungry at eleven pm most evenings having done nothing much in particular and with not a lot to show for it. Much like life, I suppose - which is not to be disingenuous because I do very enjoy my life at the moment, save for the tiredness and the lack of time to get my copious thinking into pixels. I’ve had to ration back what I carry in my little man-bags, because lunch takes priority and my tupperware box is somewhat copious - I’ve been wedged in awkward spots several times now on the train of a morning simply arising from an overweight satchel and it grates, readers, it really does.

I have some stories about the commute which I have no doubt is becoming intolerably, insufferably turgid to you all, but alas is all I have to write about what with the embargo on all the juicy stuff. I was on the train the other morning - standing room only, as per usual, and the train went over a particularly vicious bump, which just shouldn’t happen in a civilised country. I felt myself tumbling ever forwards, centre of gravity rapidly caving in to a fight it knew it was going to lose. I extended a stretched hand out in front of me, which is the survivalist instinct of someone who doesn’t want to land on their face, let me assure you, not as some may gather, the distinguishing feature of an unrepentant pervert.

I fell over and grabbed this poor girl’s boob who was standing in front of me, it was by far the most embarrassing thing that happened to me last week. She stared at for a moment, and then she turned round. Excruciating.

The other thing that I have discovered on my extensive travels to and fro is the reason why I keep falling over on the escalators: I have this particular pair of shoes with a slightly pointy toe on them, which in my head lend me a manly elegance and a rather raffish air, the man about town, a city slicker (as opposed to Stevie Wonder without a piano; sitty clicker…just thought of that, here all week, etc) - as opposed to the harsh reality where they look like clown shoes and catch on escalator steps.

But ah, that’s life - with it’s vagaries and shames. Now I’m off to bed, I’m ruddy exhausted.

Tags: trains planes and automobiles

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