Eating on public transport.
There really are very few occasions where watching someone eat is a pleasant experience, in fact it’s a real skill to eat nicely. Michel Roux Jnr does a good job, less so Greg. Nigella even manages to make it look sexy, but for most of us the only thing sex has in common with eating is that it can be quite slurpy and we do it on our own way more than we admit to.
The other day I was on the tube and sat opposite was a portly bloke who decided this would be a good place to have a rather unhealthy breakfast of doughnuts. Between White City and Tottenham Court Road, I was held captive in a cramped train, late for an appointment, watching him slowly wipe his fingers on his jacket before dipping into his paper bag and fishing out another jam-filled-sugar-coated-nightmare. I think he had three, it may have been four, I can’t think about it long enough to remember, but that bastard has ruined donuts for me now, and I used to be quite partial to them. Thanks a lot fat bloke.
Sadly this wasn’t a one-off. I’ve had a similar incident happen to me on a coach to Hull involving an elderly lady and a prawn sandwich and again on a train sat next to a young man who ate a Twix in a very messed up way.
Crying with joy.
I don’t get it. You’re so happy you cried? Do you get so tired that you dance? So sad that you laugh?
Or is it about losing control? If so how come it’s only control of tears you lose? Why not “I was so pleased I wet myself.” Or “It was such a moving speech there was shit everywhere”.
I know a lot of mums who cry at school plays or when their kids do well at something. I never do that. To make me cry the kids would have to kick me in the shin, rub raw onion in my face or break the telly again. When they do something good, I usually smile, say well done and maybe buy them a gift. Clearly I must be dead inside.
Being serious makes me feel uncomfortable. I’d much rather approach pretty much every subject in a light-hearted jokey way. I accept that this makes me quite an irritating person to be around, but may I suggest to amuse yourself next time you see me you engage in a conversation to see how long I can keep making chippy remarks before I give up and run away. I should be able to cope with, “I’ve just lost my job”, I will begin to struggle around “My puppy’s just died” but get to “It turns out it’s not just a mole after all” and you won’t see me for dust.