Time seems to go very quickly in London. It makes me worry that I’ll start to look even older than my face suggests already. I estimate that one year from now, my forehead will have more lines than a Hogarth etching; and who knows by that point to sooth my impending depression, I may have even started drinking Gin with my Coco-Pops, to make life a little more bearable.
I opted to get the coach to London, I was seduced by the cheap ticket. Five minutes into the journey, the lady in front decided to recline her seat back, and as a result, it soon felt that I was performing dentistry. Her molar’s were in a poor state of repair, which I put down to box of Jaffa Cakes she decided not to share.
People’s lack of courtesy on Public Transport is galling sometimes. I’m not bitter that the woman kept the Jaffa Cakes to herself; it was the fact that I had to see her eat them upside down, and listen to an orchestra of chewing and chomping. I’ve had quieter and cleaner colonic irrigations than the horror show she performed getting through that box of Jaffa Cakes. I feel that if it’s not my eyes being scarred by the sight of atrocities, it’s my ears getting fingered by strangers with their rubbish singing. Thirty years ago, I might be wrong, it would be considered normal practice to walk around the streets with a jar of Chloroform. It was handy to put to sleep anyone that might be considered a nuisance. Nowadays using Chloroform is frowned upon, so I have to listen to people singing like Celine Dion, but Celine Dion being chased through the woods by an angry bear.