You Probably Are

11 Feb

It is so funny when the cyclists respond to me. It is as shocking to me as it is when I question them. So I am waiting to cross London Wall and there he was – having come through the red light behind me and he was now aiming to go into oncoming traffic where I was waiting to cross. Inching into the traffic to get across to the other side. I can’t let an opportunity like this go by, especially from someone trussed up like a fucking turkey in high vis gear on a fold up bike. I ask him does he think it is a good idea? He says that it probably wasn’t and so I probed further and asked if he thought it was very dangerous and he said that I was probably right. I turned to him, smiled and said that I AM right and continued with my journey as he crippled over the road illegally, through a red light and into oncoming traffic. I wonder if he will make it home. On the 18.37 now and penned in by a man absolutely honking of booze and speaking I’m a very Glaswegian accent. He is sitting opposite his work colleague and he just picked up a voicemail from work about an “occupational nurse” from 4pm and he asked if the colleague had had any emails about the same problem that the voicemail was about. His response? “ain’t had my phone on all day mate” and so we can safely assume that they have been getting pissed all afternoon. What a wonderful life some people do lead. The smell of booze is fucking disgusting. It is what I expect from the 23.09 train from Charing Cross on a Friday night, not the 18.37 on a Wednesday. It really smells so horrible. It’s like sitting next to Rab C Nesbit aside from the string vest. I had a man like this on the said Friday night train, who stumbled on and virtually sat on top of me. He moved when he realised I was there and proceeded to heavy breathe as is normal for drunk people. The smell was vile so I started to move my scarf around my face to block it out. He didn’t like this and huffed and puffed and got up to sit somewhere else and I audibly thanked him. The fuckwit turned around and asked what the problem was and I quite simply said that I didn’t want to get drunk from the stench of his breath. He swayed and stared and mumbled and so I gesticulating him away with a flip of my dainty little hand. He left eventually and then slumped in a seat further down and shot me evils all the way to Lewisham where he got off. This was after I had been and spent a cultured evening at the theatre. Why do people have to get into that state? He was one of these beardy hipsters too. Drunk just makes everyone look like a fucking idiot. Time to post. Rab got off at London Bridge which was so worth him sitting down and engulfing the carriage with that breath. Until the morning, Obborati.

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