Monday, November 09, 2009
One of the hazards of public transport in London on a Friday or Saturday night is that you have to share it with lots of people who have had one too many. This means you have to watch your back, front and sides, to see who is shifting around uncomfortably, who is clutching their stomach and who has buried their face in their hands. Sorry for stereotyping but these are all likely suspects who might produce their dinner on the floor before you.
Two weeks ago a woman to my right suddenly stood up in the moving train, rushed to the door, dropped her bag with a thud and threw up in one big explosion of mushrooms.
Then during the walk home, I saw a guy staggering down the road like a two year old who has just learnt how to walk. As he came stumbling forward his path was blocked by the short parapet wall of the neighbourhood church and he inadvertently fell into a superb position to vomit. He was hanging on the wall like a pair of trousers on the clothes line. Perched on his stomach, with his legs on the outside and his face on the other side of the church wall he began drenching a bush with what were probably his extra beers.
And then there is the pissing with all the full bladders trying to catch the last train home. But this is enough information for one post. Some other time.