The other day I bought a new jacket. It's smart and green, it has a hood. I was initially quite pleased with myself. But now I look at it and just feel sad. I'm sad because that jacket means it's Autumn again. And then it will be Winter. And then another year will have gone by and I'll still be sitting in this same chair with my little notebook open on my lap trying to write my way out of a paper bag. No wait, not paper, polythene. A polythene bag is more suffocating. And more depressing because you can see the world you're struggling so hard to get back to.
Today is...an effort.
The bus roars on
a wolfhound through the fog,
sent out to find the bodies.
I turn my collar up
to look like on of those painters;
calm and detached,
a leafy branch floating
down the window of a river
with no perilous thoughts
to ruffle my peripheries
or disturbs the patterns
trailing out at my back.
But really I'm drowning.
Tuesday, 7 September 2010
Monday, 2 August 2010
Making Life-Sized Models of The Velvet Underground in Plaid
When I go to the shop; when I break, for the hundredth time this week, my vow not to eat a sackful of sweet treats; when I purchase a bar of Dairy Milk Fruit & Nut because I haven't had one in many a year, do you know what I expect? I expect more than ONE nut. And I do not think that this is unreasonable.
True, the name of the chocolate bar is Fruit and Nut, singular. However in the brief description on the back of the packaging it clearly states, "Milk chocolate with raisins and almonds." Almond*s*, plural. As in, more than ONE.
Really, Cadbury ought to have written something along these lines:
"Lots and lots of raisins, a drizzle of over-priced chocolate and a single ancient, crumbly nut."
That description gives away pretty much everything I need to know and allows me to make an informed decision on whether or not I really do want to spend more than fifty pence on a glorified packet of dried fruit.
Fair enough, this bar of chocolate no doubt slipped around the factory, going from one conveyor belt to the next with little or no human input before being wrapped, packed and shipped out around the country. But seriously, ONE nut?! JEEZ-O! It didn't even taste like a real nut! Get your act together CADBURY, why don't you? Hey, why don't you do the whole friggin' country a favour and EMPLOY someone to watch my friggin' chocolate bar to make sure I get more than one friggin' nut? It's not like Kraft can't afford it, with their squeezy cheeses and tinned meals! Just stop being s'damn greedy CEOs, SEOs and whatever other EOs it is that're hoarding all the dosh! Oh, and Simon Cowell, can't forget about that insanely selfish, narcissistic abomination dominating the entire Western sonuvagun world!
Huhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.
Everything is ruined again. Thanks Cadbury. Thank you VERY much :/
"Still, it's a choice and I choose to rage."
True, the name of the chocolate bar is Fruit and Nut, singular. However in the brief description on the back of the packaging it clearly states, "Milk chocolate with raisins and almonds." Almond*s*, plural. As in, more than ONE.
Really, Cadbury ought to have written something along these lines:
"Lots and lots of raisins, a drizzle of over-priced chocolate and a single ancient, crumbly nut."
That description gives away pretty much everything I need to know and allows me to make an informed decision on whether or not I really do want to spend more than fifty pence on a glorified packet of dried fruit.
Fair enough, this bar of chocolate no doubt slipped around the factory, going from one conveyor belt to the next with little or no human input before being wrapped, packed and shipped out around the country. But seriously, ONE nut?! JEEZ-O! It didn't even taste like a real nut! Get your act together CADBURY, why don't you? Hey, why don't you do the whole friggin' country a favour and EMPLOY someone to watch my friggin' chocolate bar to make sure I get more than one friggin' nut? It's not like Kraft can't afford it, with their squeezy cheeses and tinned meals! Just stop being s'damn greedy CEOs, SEOs and whatever other EOs it is that're hoarding all the dosh! Oh, and Simon Cowell, can't forget about that insanely selfish, narcissistic abomination dominating the entire Western sonuvagun world!
Huhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.
Everything is ruined again. Thanks Cadbury. Thank you VERY much :/
"Still, it's a choice and I choose to rage."
Sunday, 11 July 2010
Spare A Thought
This morning I woke feeling distressed. It may just have been because it was so darn hot last night and my mouth was glued together with dehydration and I'd been haunted by repetitive dreams about not being where I need to be at the correct time and I was a little bit hungover. But I think it was really down to the fact that the only thought rushing through my mind was that everybody always forgets about chicken breasts. I felt terrible.
So I decided to declare this Sunday the day of BREAST. It's not really going to be so much different to any other Sunday, other than the extra 'B(ee)' I've tagged onto the ol' day of REST saying. You geddit? I don't.
I've been wondering lately if maybe I should give vegetarianism another go. But then I decided that it's probably okay to eat things like beef and pork, just as long as the meat isn't coming from baby animals, because big animals have had their time, right? They've seen the sunrise, they've felt the rain spatter on their thick skin, they've endured the sting of a wasp on the end of their milk-sweetened teat. Plus I was reading an article about the lambing season and nearly started to cry for all those bleating balls of delight I've eaten in the past. Verdict: I'm giving up lamb.
Other than this, peanut butter is rocking my world once again. Is there really anything finer than sleeping late on the weekend before rolling into the kitchen to indulge in a slice of toast smeared with that crunchy delight? I really do not believe there is.
*exit stage trapdoor*
So I decided to declare this Sunday the day of BREAST. It's not really going to be so much different to any other Sunday, other than the extra 'B(ee)' I've tagged onto the ol' day of REST saying. You geddit? I don't.
I've been wondering lately if maybe I should give vegetarianism another go. But then I decided that it's probably okay to eat things like beef and pork, just as long as the meat isn't coming from baby animals, because big animals have had their time, right? They've seen the sunrise, they've felt the rain spatter on their thick skin, they've endured the sting of a wasp on the end of their milk-sweetened teat. Plus I was reading an article about the lambing season and nearly started to cry for all those bleating balls of delight I've eaten in the past. Verdict: I'm giving up lamb.
Other than this, peanut butter is rocking my world once again. Is there really anything finer than sleeping late on the weekend before rolling into the kitchen to indulge in a slice of toast smeared with that crunchy delight? I really do not believe there is.
*exit stage trapdoor*
Wednesday, 7 July 2010
And Now For Something a Little Offensive
I was bound for London again this weekend for general hand-holding frivolity with Best Beloved. Two weeks in a row! Much as my ailing bank account doesn't appreciate the needlessly extortionate rates I'm faced with while I'm hulled up in our nation's capital, my little Bee heart surely does appreciate the respite from the gripping state of loneliness it is otherwise faced with, so all is well.
On Friday I trundled out of work a faithful packhorse with my too-many-bags-for-two-and-a-half-days, off to the station, hurrying to catch the earlier train. OH NO! I'd forgotten to refill my water before I left work! Usually in this eventuality I would have beaten myself up for hours on end for landing myself drinkless in a situation that would surely call for a drink, literally punching the crap out of my weary body. What a mess. But not today, Zurg!
The sun was shining, I'd made it in time to get the earlier train, I was battling the urge to drop dead from the pressures of heat and exhaustion, so what the hell, I figured I'd just buy a drink from the trolley. As you may have guessed, it was a disappointing excursion.
ONE POUND AND SIXTY PENCE was pillaged from my unwilling purse for a cup of hot, not boiling water and a hard teabag. I don't particularly like strong tea; in fact I despise it and the furry orange tongue that manifests as a result of drinking it, but I do like a small amount of squeezability (what a fucking horrible word) in my teabag. And when I ask for "several" milks, I expect to be given more than THREE. Three?! What kind of number is that when it comes to milk portions? Oh yes, that's right, it's exactly the amount of milk portions you'd give out with a cup of tea and it's about five fewer milk portions than you ought to give someone who has just asked for SEVERAL MILKS. Three is not even nearly enough! And what I found even more insulting was the fact that he also gave me THREE sugars after I'd clearly said, "No sugars but several milks, please."
This is just not cricket, East Coast trains!
And you know what else has been irritating me lately? Public toilets. Or, rather, using public toilets while there are other people in them. And more specifically when there's no other background noise and only one other woman in there so you can hear every tiny movement she makes. Especially if she's overweight. In my experience, using a public toilet at the same time as a bigger woman is wholly off putting and, frankly just unpleasant.
Get a grip, larger ladies! When it's an effort to wipe then it's time to think about detox! If Oprah can do it, so can you! I'm rooting for you :/
On Friday I trundled out of work a faithful packhorse with my too-many-bags-for-two-and-a-half-days, off to the station, hurrying to catch the earlier train. OH NO! I'd forgotten to refill my water before I left work! Usually in this eventuality I would have beaten myself up for hours on end for landing myself drinkless in a situation that would surely call for a drink, literally punching the crap out of my weary body. What a mess. But not today, Zurg!
The sun was shining, I'd made it in time to get the earlier train, I was battling the urge to drop dead from the pressures of heat and exhaustion, so what the hell, I figured I'd just buy a drink from the trolley. As you may have guessed, it was a disappointing excursion.
ONE POUND AND SIXTY PENCE was pillaged from my unwilling purse for a cup of hot, not boiling water and a hard teabag. I don't particularly like strong tea; in fact I despise it and the furry orange tongue that manifests as a result of drinking it, but I do like a small amount of squeezability (what a fucking horrible word) in my teabag. And when I ask for "several" milks, I expect to be given more than THREE. Three?! What kind of number is that when it comes to milk portions? Oh yes, that's right, it's exactly the amount of milk portions you'd give out with a cup of tea and it's about five fewer milk portions than you ought to give someone who has just asked for SEVERAL MILKS. Three is not even nearly enough! And what I found even more insulting was the fact that he also gave me THREE sugars after I'd clearly said, "No sugars but several milks, please."
This is just not cricket, East Coast trains!
And you know what else has been irritating me lately? Public toilets. Or, rather, using public toilets while there are other people in them. And more specifically when there's no other background noise and only one other woman in there so you can hear every tiny movement she makes. Especially if she's overweight. In my experience, using a public toilet at the same time as a bigger woman is wholly off putting and, frankly just unpleasant.
Get a grip, larger ladies! When it's an effort to wipe then it's time to think about detox! If Oprah can do it, so can you! I'm rooting for you :/
Monday, 28 June 2010
Not For Me, Honey
While I was travelling to London at the weekend, I sat behind a mother with her small child of about 3 or 4; it's hard to tell with children these days, they often leave the womb as 14 stone teenagers because their mothers overate while they were pregnant, resulting in a race of super humans, their super power being the ability to eat their dinner really quickly, along with their crayons, their siblings and their own arms. But that's another blog, for another time.
The mother was obviously switched off to the entire world outside the massive cloud of reasonably-priced perfume that encircled her because she'd sat herself and her child in Coach B. Coach B is traditionally the QUIET coach, as denoted by the stickers dotted about the place showing a set of lips with a finger held to them, the universally accepted symbol of quietness, one of which, ironically, the mother and child were sitting beneath. I say ironically because the child's voice didn't drop below the level of foghorn for the entire two and a half hour journey, despite the mother's ever so delicate, ever so effective shushings. (NB, anyone who reads this and then reads my novel...whenIfindanagent and whentheyfindapublisher...may feel they recognise elements of this story in chapter 7. What can I say, I travel by train a lot and there are a lot of irresponsible parents around these days.)
Anyway, by the time the journey was drawing to its King's Cross close, I realised the root of the child's over active vocal chord problems. Under the supervision of its mother, the child had consumed three cartons of Ribena, a big bag of Jelly Babies, an apple, two Coco Pops cereal bars and early onset diabetes.
Now I don't have such a huge problem with children eating a bit of sugar every now and then; I myself spent many a happy Sunday afternoon perched in the kitchen armed with a spoon, covertly devouring a tin of Golden Syrup. Yes, I had certain weight issues, but it was nothing a healthy dose of childhood pneumonia couldn't solve.
What I DO have a problem with is having my Friday evening jaunt through the Surrey countryside, those I like to spend in quiet reflection, ruined by the constant, hammering chime of, "Are we there now?"
If my children ever ask this of me they will receive a simple answer:
"No, we obviously are not there yet, but hopefully your real parents will be waiting at the station, because no child of mine could be stupid enough to think we are 'there' when the train is blatantly still moving. Now back to your needlework; your playclothes won't stitch themselves."
I am, of course, joking. My children and I will sing and dance our way about the country, pausing only in market squares to learn valuable life lessons about not feeling too sad if you don't catch a tomato and it splatters at your feet. And then, when we get home and Best Beloved asks if I mean to tell him that his children have been roaming about Salzburg dressed up in nothing but some old DRAPES, I'll say, "Yes. And having a maaaarvellous time!"
What a perfect life we'll lead.
The mother was obviously switched off to the entire world outside the massive cloud of reasonably-priced perfume that encircled her because she'd sat herself and her child in Coach B. Coach B is traditionally the QUIET coach, as denoted by the stickers dotted about the place showing a set of lips with a finger held to them, the universally accepted symbol of quietness, one of which, ironically, the mother and child were sitting beneath. I say ironically because the child's voice didn't drop below the level of foghorn for the entire two and a half hour journey, despite the mother's ever so delicate, ever so effective shushings. (NB, anyone who reads this and then reads my novel...whenIfindanagent and whentheyfindapublisher...may feel they recognise elements of this story in chapter 7. What can I say, I travel by train a lot and there are a lot of irresponsible parents around these days.)
Anyway, by the time the journey was drawing to its King's Cross close, I realised the root of the child's over active vocal chord problems. Under the supervision of its mother, the child had consumed three cartons of Ribena, a big bag of Jelly Babies, an apple, two Coco Pops cereal bars and early onset diabetes.
Now I don't have such a huge problem with children eating a bit of sugar every now and then; I myself spent many a happy Sunday afternoon perched in the kitchen armed with a spoon, covertly devouring a tin of Golden Syrup. Yes, I had certain weight issues, but it was nothing a healthy dose of childhood pneumonia couldn't solve.
What I DO have a problem with is having my Friday evening jaunt through the Surrey countryside, those I like to spend in quiet reflection, ruined by the constant, hammering chime of, "Are we there now?"
If my children ever ask this of me they will receive a simple answer:
"No, we obviously are not there yet, but hopefully your real parents will be waiting at the station, because no child of mine could be stupid enough to think we are 'there' when the train is blatantly still moving. Now back to your needlework; your playclothes won't stitch themselves."
I am, of course, joking. My children and I will sing and dance our way about the country, pausing only in market squares to learn valuable life lessons about not feeling too sad if you don't catch a tomato and it splatters at your feet. And then, when we get home and Best Beloved asks if I mean to tell him that his children have been roaming about Salzburg dressed up in nothing but some old DRAPES, I'll say, "Yes. And having a maaaarvellous time!"
What a perfect life we'll lead.
Thursday, 24 June 2010
Prickling
If you hadn't guessed already, blogging has become my latest obsession. Not only because it's a good way to stay practised and further my non-existent writing career, but also because it's great for whiling away the hours between asleep and awake that would otherwise be filled with endless streams of bitter tears as I stare at the tatters of my so far cactus-prickled life.
Anyway, I've taken to searching through other people's blogs to see where I'm going wrong, since prettymuchnoone reads this, except the Golden Few I treasure dearly. And you know what I was greeted with? Pictures of fat dogs with their assholes and balls hanging RIGHT out to dry.
Well yes, yes it does. And I've had just about enough of dogs right now. Last night I was woken up at midnight by a DOG. BARKING. Said dog has been barking into the early hours of the morning for the last three months. Boy, did I slam my window so hard it shit itself into submission! But only for last night. I can hear it right now. "Woof! Woof! Fuck you!"
It is RUINING Glee: The Music, Volume 2. Inconsideration to the nth degree.
Anyway, I've taken to searching through other people's blogs to see where I'm going wrong, since prettymuchnoone reads this, except the Golden Few I treasure dearly. And you know what I was greeted with? Pictures of fat dogs with their assholes and balls hanging RIGHT out to dry.
Well yes, yes it does. And I've had just about enough of dogs right now. Last night I was woken up at midnight by a DOG. BARKING. Said dog has been barking into the early hours of the morning for the last three months. Boy, did I slam my window so hard it shit itself into submission! But only for last night. I can hear it right now. "Woof! Woof! Fuck you!"
It is RUINING Glee: The Music, Volume 2. Inconsideration to the nth degree.
Wednesday, 23 June 2010
Probably the last time I'll ever be courteous
Today I was waiting for the bus for nearly fifteen minutes, which is fair enough since they run every fifteen minutes and I only leave work at 16:30, so I'm used to waiting fifteen minutes for the bus.
Anyway, I don't like to sit in the front seats at the bus station because I guess I'm still afflicted with that secondary school mindset where sitting at the front of anything shows a little bit too much effort/eagerness and therefore picks you out as a "massive geek", and even though I'm a self-confessed "massive geek", I don't want to be hit in the back of the head with an egg, which is obviously what would happen.
So there I sat, mid-range, with a few seats behind me, a few in front, casually waiting for my bus.
Now, I am extremely picky when it comes to choosing a seat on the bus. I have preferences depending on the season, so since this is summer, I'll only go into my hot weather specific needs. (NB there are different morning and afternoon requirements, but I'll just cover the afternoon ones right now, to save time.)
- I cannot be sitting on the side of the bus where the sun shines for the majority of the journey. I have sensitive eyes and even with sunglasses this just isn't appropriate. I find myself squinting, gripping my teeth fidgeting to try and find shade, until I get such a headache all I can do is close my eyes and weep inwardly.
- I can't sit at the back of the bus because the engine smell makes me feel sick and often there are teenagers playing BAD songs over and over again, turned up too loud to be drowned out by my own music/maniacal thoughts about life. I also run the risk of being murdered by them because that's just the kind of people thy are.
PLUS the back of the bus often becomes very busy and there are limited seating options - the sofa running along the back is a definite no no; sitting next to one person is bad enough, two is like some terrible, unending bus-nightmare.
- I can't sit at the front of the bus in case an elderly or disabled person gets on and I have to get up and move. My overall levels of social awkwardness do not cope well in this kind of situation, so I prefer to just avoid them. At all costs.
The seats set a little further back than these also pose a sizeable problem in summer because they have the heating system running all the way along the window side. If bus drivers want my heat-induced vomit all over the saloon floor, then they should just keep on pumpin' that heat. Oh what's that? They were going to anyway? Oh good, my well-being means nothing. The front of the bus also, again, heightens the likelihood of my having to spend time in close confines with a stranger. From my experiences, strangers on buses often smell, or have personal space issues. Both of these things make me grouchy, which is the last thing I need at the end of the working day when it's more than likely I'm grouchy already because I'm having hunger/life-crisis issues.
- I don't *really* like sitting upstairs if it's a double decker, because I spend the entire journey terrified that
a) the bus is going to tip over, and
b) when it's time to get off I'll stumble on the stairs and fall to my broken-necked death.
The top of the bus is only really suitable if Best Beloved is with me so he can go down first and catch me should I indeed fall head first towards that hellish chasm of doom.
So in essence, the only suitable place for me to sit on the bus I catch home every evening is the seat over the wheel on the left hand side, next to the window with my bag beside me to deter strangers, and even this isn't ideal since most bus drivers don't understand the concept of slowing down for speed bumps.
Anyway, I sat waiting in the bus station. A man came and sat in a seat behind me. That was okay. Then, a few minutes later, a woman came. She stared at me the entire time she was walking over and plonked herself in a seat in front of me. For a brief moment I chastised her to myself, but then turned to more charitable thoughts: she was older than me; not ancient, but older than me nonetheless. And she had a huge nose. So I figured since she'd been hefting that around with her all day on her middle-to-old lady legs I should probably quit my whining and let her get on before me.
The bus pulled up. I signalled for her to go first. She refused. I could have just gone ahead. I SHOULD have just gone ahead. But I'd made the offer, I couldn't take it back, her nose was already half way there.
"No, no," I said, "go ahead!"
"Thank you," she said. "It's not like we're going to be fighting for seats, is it?"
How wrong she was.
I knew, almost immediately that she was going to sit in my seat. I didn't even try to hide my disgust. I slumped into a seat at the front of the bus, instantly too hot, the sun shining in my face, the threat of myriad old people looming over my tired little head. I ate an apple. Then I made what I thought was a sensible decision. I moved to the top of the bus. I'm 23 now, I should be able to handle a few steps on a bus.
How wrong I was.
I pressed the bell for my stop and headed towards the stairs, my bag swinging wildly from my arm because I had no time to sort myself out (the driver was insane). I TRIPPED ON THE STAIRS. I had a mild heart attack and grabbed the rail just in time. I swung into the wall and managed to steady myself. Then I died of embarrassment.
If I see the lady again tomorrow, if she sits in front of me at the bus station tomorrow, then I'll have an egg ready, though there's no doubt some alien forcefield emanating from the house-like beak dripping from her face that will protect her.
THE ENDING.
Anyway, I don't like to sit in the front seats at the bus station because I guess I'm still afflicted with that secondary school mindset where sitting at the front of anything shows a little bit too much effort/eagerness and therefore picks you out as a "massive geek", and even though I'm a self-confessed "massive geek", I don't want to be hit in the back of the head with an egg, which is obviously what would happen.
So there I sat, mid-range, with a few seats behind me, a few in front, casually waiting for my bus.
Now, I am extremely picky when it comes to choosing a seat on the bus. I have preferences depending on the season, so since this is summer, I'll only go into my hot weather specific needs. (NB there are different morning and afternoon requirements, but I'll just cover the afternoon ones right now, to save time.)
- I cannot be sitting on the side of the bus where the sun shines for the majority of the journey. I have sensitive eyes and even with sunglasses this just isn't appropriate. I find myself squinting, gripping my teeth fidgeting to try and find shade, until I get such a headache all I can do is close my eyes and weep inwardly.
- I can't sit at the back of the bus because the engine smell makes me feel sick and often there are teenagers playing BAD songs over and over again, turned up too loud to be drowned out by my own music/maniacal thoughts about life. I also run the risk of being murdered by them because that's just the kind of people thy are.
PLUS the back of the bus often becomes very busy and there are limited seating options - the sofa running along the back is a definite no no; sitting next to one person is bad enough, two is like some terrible, unending bus-nightmare.
- I can't sit at the front of the bus in case an elderly or disabled person gets on and I have to get up and move. My overall levels of social awkwardness do not cope well in this kind of situation, so I prefer to just avoid them. At all costs.
The seats set a little further back than these also pose a sizeable problem in summer because they have the heating system running all the way along the window side. If bus drivers want my heat-induced vomit all over the saloon floor, then they should just keep on pumpin' that heat. Oh what's that? They were going to anyway? Oh good, my well-being means nothing. The front of the bus also, again, heightens the likelihood of my having to spend time in close confines with a stranger. From my experiences, strangers on buses often smell, or have personal space issues. Both of these things make me grouchy, which is the last thing I need at the end of the working day when it's more than likely I'm grouchy already because I'm having hunger/life-crisis issues.
- I don't *really* like sitting upstairs if it's a double decker, because I spend the entire journey terrified that
a) the bus is going to tip over, and
b) when it's time to get off I'll stumble on the stairs and fall to my broken-necked death.
The top of the bus is only really suitable if Best Beloved is with me so he can go down first and catch me should I indeed fall head first towards that hellish chasm of doom.
So in essence, the only suitable place for me to sit on the bus I catch home every evening is the seat over the wheel on the left hand side, next to the window with my bag beside me to deter strangers, and even this isn't ideal since most bus drivers don't understand the concept of slowing down for speed bumps.
Anyway, I sat waiting in the bus station. A man came and sat in a seat behind me. That was okay. Then, a few minutes later, a woman came. She stared at me the entire time she was walking over and plonked herself in a seat in front of me. For a brief moment I chastised her to myself, but then turned to more charitable thoughts: she was older than me; not ancient, but older than me nonetheless. And she had a huge nose. So I figured since she'd been hefting that around with her all day on her middle-to-old lady legs I should probably quit my whining and let her get on before me.
The bus pulled up. I signalled for her to go first. She refused. I could have just gone ahead. I SHOULD have just gone ahead. But I'd made the offer, I couldn't take it back, her nose was already half way there.
"No, no," I said, "go ahead!"
"Thank you," she said. "It's not like we're going to be fighting for seats, is it?"
How wrong she was.
I knew, almost immediately that she was going to sit in my seat. I didn't even try to hide my disgust. I slumped into a seat at the front of the bus, instantly too hot, the sun shining in my face, the threat of myriad old people looming over my tired little head. I ate an apple. Then I made what I thought was a sensible decision. I moved to the top of the bus. I'm 23 now, I should be able to handle a few steps on a bus.
How wrong I was.
I pressed the bell for my stop and headed towards the stairs, my bag swinging wildly from my arm because I had no time to sort myself out (the driver was insane). I TRIPPED ON THE STAIRS. I had a mild heart attack and grabbed the rail just in time. I swung into the wall and managed to steady myself. Then I died of embarrassment.
If I see the lady again tomorrow, if she sits in front of me at the bus station tomorrow, then I'll have an egg ready, though there's no doubt some alien forcefield emanating from the house-like beak dripping from her face that will protect her.
THE ENDING.
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