It was so cold this morning I could feel my nipples brushing up against my shirt and with Half Term in full swing the platform took on the appearance of a morgue. The express train to London Liverpool Street suddenly burst from a vortex and exploded through the village’s station, I stood firm, barely swaying, daring the express train to uproot me.
I assumed I was alone on the platform but I was wrong. Not far from me sat a hunched woman with a harsh Welsh accent and a face that was a cross between a demented pit ball and a mutilated goose. At first I thought she was bellowing instructions to a child, a son or a daughter perhaps. It appeared this child was incapable of pouring milk (the milk was to be found in the fridge apparently, and not in the shed, next to the old fish tank) over a bowl of cereals. This woman was hideous! She scratched her left armpit whilst continuing to screech her instructions into her Blackberry. The 8.27 was due in 2 minutes, I did think briefly of lifting her by the collar and dropping her in front of the next London-bound train, but of course this would have ended up complicated.
The ending of her conversation turned out to be peculiar. She began by barking instructions about remembering to put the toothpaste onto the toothbrush, not too much cream on her hands, and not to wear the yellow knickers (the ones in the top drawer) because they were the wrong size and were too tight and would make her feel all hot and bothered. It was only when she promised to see her the following morning and as a surprise she would bring along all the grandchildren, that I feel realised this Welsh behemoth was talking down to her demented mother!
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