Trains. Wretched tubes of vile smells and foul tempered minions who stalk the corridors of their masters. No seat for the unfair fare. Glares of rebuke as one questions the servant of overpriced cider. Magners? 2 cans please. I bask in the sweet jealousy of those around me as I selfishly glug down this pale sweet nectar. No more eye contact from those around me. No empathetic smiles at my plight. Only the smells that the 32 stone sasquatch who emerged from the hazard zone that is the toilet for company. I smile inwardly for Im well aware of the smorgasbord of things to come. Then I remember Im on route to Devon, drinking Magners and smelling like shite. The illusion is now a reality. A cider later, my friend Cloud, the noxious gift from my friend, still haunts my memories. I venture into the cubicle which can now only be described as a biohazard. Even my member doesnt want out, it clutches my zipper shut but my bladder screams for release. Bent double in the awkwardness of my predicament I manage to aim and fire. No success. We seem to have hit the only sleeping policeman on the southbound line. Now, dripping wet, full of hate and and slightly drunk I open the water closet door. The train stops and as the electric door slides open Im greeted by the stampede of angry men, women and children. Cloud, whom I thought lost, is back. Faces turn to me, stomachs also. One man, visibly retching, between mouthfuls of his own vomit tosses me a casual insult. I cant defend myself. I cant defend Cloud. What kind of monster am I? Tormented by pangs of guilt I retreat back into the booth of doom, Cloud comforting me, his hand on my shoulder. I remain here for the rest of the journey. You can bang I shout but you do not want to come in here. I am the master. (Except: Binneys memoirs of a southbound expedition; chapter 2 Not the way I would have wanted to meet her)
Posted on: Fri, 19 Dec 2014 17:49:05 +0000
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