There's a woman between my legs!

It's hot today! And packed! Luckily I have a seat by the door. It should be an easy exit when the time comes, even with all these people. But it'll be tricky to stand up when I have to; now there's a woman between my thighs.

As the underground carriage doors opened I absent-mindedly looked towards them. You couldn't miss her! Tall, easily 6 feet (152.4 cm), long crinkly blond hair over her bronzed shoulders and down her back. Red thin-strapped ankle-length cotton clinging dress... clinging! Oh and as she boarded, it was clear to all who have a vague interest in these things, that she was bra-less. Now, being a 31 year veteran of happy marriage, I, of course pay no heed to such things, occupying as I do a life above the baser demon physical plane. However, for the sake of a complete picture for my reader (and Neville, I hope that rash clears up soon), the curvature and fullness of breast under the straight across top may best be described as ample. Her blue eyes and full lips matching the colour of the dress officially qualified her as a Goddess!

"Goddess you say!" I note your scepticism. But here's the thing: After my initial glimpse of female in red dress (clinging) (frd(c)) my complete view of her was blocked out, initially by her hips approximately 12 inches (30.5 cm) from my nose and then, part way through the 3 minute journey to the next stop when she somehow turned round, her bottom. Given my seating position and head height relative to curved body parts, it was tricky to obtain a complete overview. I can tell you this, though: The thin nature of the dress material meant it was extremely difficult to evade the indisputable visual evidence, that she wore a string thong!

Anyway, my predicament being as it was and the fact that I now had to endure the next 3 gruelling minutes, goddess between legs, no front view other than the thong-zone; all I could do was look left or right at other people.

You questioned the term "Goddess"? Well, okay, she clearly wasn't, as far as I could tell, an actual female deity. No glow-surround or Peter Jackson trying to cast her for his next Tolkien film! But if a goddess is otherwise defined as a woman who is greatly admired especially for her beauty, then it was from the people I observed, observing her, that the term stands up.

Men drooled, one literally. Though that could have initially been from his nose - he did appear to have a summer cold! Their eyes widened and grew, like binoculars on heat. And however hard they tried, men's faces turned back to her direction as if magnetised by an irresistible force of nature. Women eyed her up and down in the way women do! They betrayed every thought, from overt disgust (or was that just plain jealousy?) to lust. In between there was begrudging admiration, though eyes surveyed critically checking every detail, trying to find fault that would make them feel better i.e. less threatened and just a little smug.

Possibly more amusing was watching the women looking at the men looking at frd(c). One woman smiled watching these sad pathetic males unable to temper their hormonal urges. Though one suspects the smile masked a quiet envy! Another used a physical reaction: An elbow to her man’s side. He tried so hard but failed to fight the force. A third looked like a Women's Studies post-grad. who thought every man was an arsehole clearly objectifying the person and should be shot for (still) being Cavemen!

My 3 minute journey was coming to an end. There was a shuffle towards the doors as we neared Kings Cross, a popular stop. I felt simultaneously sad yet excited. I might yet see a goddess in uninterrupted Plasma HD 3-D Technicolor Surround Sound-vision. Sadly not! The doors opened and many disembarked, including frd(c), who's thong-zone, back, shoulders, and then arms (in that order) were quickly absorbed into the crowd. As she grew smaller with distance in the otherwise blurred surrounding visual frame, all I could see was her blond mane.

As I left the station and walked to the venue for my meeting I considered what it must be like for her, being looked at in the way she was. But then I thought
'No! I cannot sympathise. Did she for one moment consider me in all this? You know; standing between my legs, looking all Goddessy, placing me in that position?' I think not!

I decided there and then, that if another goddess one day chose to get between my legs again, in public, I would seriously, very seriously consider, if time and space allowed and the journey not too bumpy making it hazardous to do otherwise, think about offering to get up and swap places. Then we'd see how goddess woman liked the white y-front groinal/posterior outlook! I for one would not tolerate being ogled as a love god!

Cos the World Owes Me!

Do you use a bus on your commute? There's a type of person I see more on the bus than the train; the young female with toddler in push chair, wearing a default surly face which says ‘Out o' my way, can’t you see I’m comin' froo?’

You may have seen them yourself: Grey stained ill-fitting tracksuit bottoms and off-grime trainers, crop top with excess body over the waistband complete with belly-button stud drowning in flab; three-toned 'blond' 'hair'; an excess of silver chains, rings, dangly loop earrings and a nose stud; money wasted in the nails shop sporting ludicrous, impractical talon extensions, clutching a packet o’ fags and an expensive mobile phone in one hand while steering the off-spring buggy with the other, caring little for fellow passengers. The balling toddler looks like it's dressed in Surly’s own baby clothes, under a blanket that itself screams "Launder me a month ago!"

I watch (from the middle of the bus) an older gentleman with walking stick get up from his seat near the front – seats meant for the elderly and disabled as well as push-chair users – and offer it to Surly. To be fair Surly says “Fanks” but in a monotone of expectation rather than acknowledgement of a kindly deed, and with a look now directed at the older woman sitting next to her saying ‘Well move then, my buggy’s gotta go there!’

I am uplifted as the older lady looks straight back at her, smiles, then returns to her book with more class than Surly will muster in her lifetime. The scene is a striking contrast - the older woman, poised, smartly dressed, life's experience carried with dignity on her face, the look of a considerate person: the young girl, slouching, characterless, slovenly, a taker!

Balling offspring is red-faced; cheeks tear-soaked, snot-nosed. Surly leans over impatiently, made more inconvenient for her (and humorous for me) by the older woman not moving. She may look considerate but it doesn't mean she lacks self-confidence.
"Stop it, Britney! What you cryin' about? 'Ere!" Surly stuffs a dummy in her child's mouth. This works for a second before the dummy falls out. It is, though, brilliantly caught in the fall by the older woman, like an expert slip-fielder. Britney starts balling again but not before older lady receives a high-pitched 'Woooo' from a man sitting opposite and a small clap from two smiling teenage girls in standing room only. She passes it to Surly, dummy teat up under Surly's mouth; for me a superbly comic moment!

Surly is momentarily stunned. The older lady smiles her smile again and once more returns to her book. After what seems like an age, Surly sucks on the dummy (as if her cigarette-saliva and breath will sterilise it) and this time, coaxes it into Britney's mouth in a more caring way.

As I get off the bus I observe the scene one last time. Surly is on her mobile now talking to her friend Tiff, just subtly enough for the whole bus to hear. Older lady, straight-backed, unmoved, continues to read. The image is stark. Yes it's one of age, appearance (literally and perceptually), life experience, style, class. But it's also, sadly, one of distinctly opposite (and in the latter case growing) outlooks on life: Consideration of others in a shared world versus one solely interested in what the world owes me.

Sad? Anal?

‘Hang on, is someone in my place? No I think I’m okay. Or am I? Shit! Better get there quick!’

My step quickens. I allow plenty of time to get to my platform waiting points, morning and night. I know exactly where the doors open to my preferred carriages and thereby the prime spots to board for my favoured seats. Gotta secure my space!

“Sad git!” I hear you think. “What are you talking about; a forty minute commute? An hour? Whatever! Just get on and deal with it!”

 Well, okay. In that case I should advise, successfully boarding is Stage 2.

“You’re…(optional swear word)…joking right?"

No! Stage 1 is to scan the carriages, both as the trains pull in and in the seconds preceding the doors opening, checking if my preferred and/or back-up seats are free. Further, that this stage be executed with a convincing look of unwavering, indifferent coolness. If they are free, boarding decision clear! If not, a super-fast survey and decision making process must ensue so that, when Stage 2 begins, I do not hesitate and consequently lose out in the race-for-the-remaining-best-seats stakes.

I know you’re rolling your eyes now. You want to say something not altogether flattering about me.

But wait! My carriages offer easy boarding, and alighting at journeys end. In the morning, most people at my station want to get on at, or near, the front. The platform is crowded and scrums form around the doors. The carriages also look busier. At journeys end, these same carriages are full of later standing passengers with a propensity to hover impatiently at the doors and rush out to the barriers; only then to stand there queuing after a quickstep-n-dodgem pelt to get one person ahead. I board the second to last carriage. No scrum here; it’s like passengers from earlier stations have ignored the carriage’s existence. At journeys end, I wait until most people get off, then leisurely put on my jacket/coat, don my back-pack and stroll down to the barriers where the queues have gone – straight through.

In the evening I board at a starter station. I often see my regular-ish train come in and empty out. Here, I get on three carriages from the front and because I am one of the first to board, always get a favoured seat. This carriage has two advantages: It generally clears out at the station prior to my mine, leaving me in a nice quiet carriage for the last leg of my commute; and when it stops at my station, the doors open right by the steps leading to the exit. Consequently, without rush, I ready myself in comfort by the door and then step out with minimal hassle to leave the station.

“Really?” you scoff, “You’re that anal about it? Just go with the flow! If you have to wait and queue, live with it! If you get overtaken in the rush, well that’s commuting for you! If you don’t like it, don’t commute!”

I hear your thoughts! Honestly! But I say, preparation beats consternation!

As I approach my platform space, relief prevails.
‘That’s a bit of luck, they’re not quite in the right place.’ Inside I savour a warming moment of smugness! Standing in my spot, the universe is once more in balance!

Sad? Maybe! Anal? Possibly – a bit! Comfortable and (relatively) relaxed? Definitely!

Imagine your house this close to a train!

http://www.keteka.com/your-stories/how-close-can-a-train-come-to-a-house/

A brilliant train video, thanks to www.keteka.com

Feeling Ok – introspective rambling

I'm drifting on the train, sitting back, no particular thoughts. But something changes.

I know where I am but momentarily feel lost. There’s a carriage full of people but, somehow, I’m alone. It’s bright outside and the temperature's warm but I come over chilly. Everyone is quiet, peaceful even, comfortably reading or dozing. So why do I have an uneasy fear?

I tell myself how (relatively) healthy I am and confident coping with the general stuff of life. As the journey and time pass I remind myself how I am used to them; these ... mini-conflicts I randomly, unwittingly, ignite in myself.

Thing is; I’ve talked to myself this way all my life! It’s like I simultaneously know who I am and yet want to know who I really am! Yes, you and me also!

I wish I knew myself more precisely; truly realised my qualities and limitations, and what more I am capable of doing to achieve higher contentment.

I stop drifting, open my eyes and look out of the window. I’m sitting relaxed, smily. The sun hasn’t shone this bright for a long time. The world outside appears lighter. Today feels like I do on one of my good days!



Ps. My hardy reader will be pleased to know that I won’t be writing introspectives often! :-) 

Funny What's in a Name!

“What do you think of the name ‘Roger’?” one woman asks her friend as we wait for our morning train.
Okay, where’s this going? I think.
“A bit of an old man’s name now. But thirty, forty years ago it was popular.”
They appeared to be ladies in their early fifties and so, respectfully, should know.
“But what does it say to you? I mean, about a man called Roger?”
Ah, here we go, might be amusing!
“I don’t know,” says friend, “someone steady, not that exciting. Why?”
“I wouldn’t call my son ‘Roger’ now. Too old-fashioned, and” (this next bit is in a lower voice) “the name is a bit naughty!”
“What do you mean?” asks a now intrigued, wide-eyed friend.
“You know” answers the first woman. She looks around as if her next words are top secret, then proceeds to move her right arm and fist in a suggestive forward and back motion adding,
“’Rogering’!”
Her astonished friend is momentarily speechless, I think caused as much by the arm movement as the words.
“I beg your pardon?” she says finally with an uncertain laugh.
“You know” eyes moving fleetingly, “‘Rog-‘!”
“Er, yes, I get it!”
I smirk.
“No”, continues friend, “I wouldn’t call my son Roger now either, but not because of your…reason.” She looks again at her friend’s arm. “I just don’t like it. It reminds me of other dull names, like ‘Ian’, ‘Glen’, or ‘Darren’!”
“Why don’t you like Darren?” queries first woman.
“Eeeeaaagh!” A being sick sound. “Plain, no personality and not to be trusted!” Was that said with a hint of spite?
Maybe, but this is dull now!
“Do you know anyone called Darren?”
Boring!
“Yes, I do actually!”
“Who?”
Friend surveys again for ear-wiggers.
“My ex-lover!”
Bloody hell! What?
“What?” says first woman too loudly for comfort.
Friend says nothing, just stares at her companion with a look that says ‘Keep it down!’
First woman lowers her voice.
Sue*!...” She half says the word “How” but it doesn’t fully come out.
“When? Is he a work thi…who is he? Oh my god! I don’t believe it!” She is genuinely stunned. She looks out over the tracks into the distance, then down at the tracks, then back to Sue.
“You’re kidding! I mean, why, how long, who is he? Oh my god you must be kidding! You’re kidding, right?”
Sue straightens her back and looks directly into her friend's eyes. Her face changes to neutral. Friend stares back, searching, waiting.
“Cath”* a long pause, then slowly, “Yes, I, am!”
Sue can’t hold it in and bursts out laughing. It’s a roar, then a belly laugh bordering on tears. “Your face!” Sue can’t stop laughing. “Oh, my eyes.” She has tissue in her hand wiping their undersides. “That was so funny!” Rubbing it in now. Cath slaps her half playfully on the arm. Sue rubs the point of impact as the not so playful half has stung but she continues laughing. Cath cracks an uneasy smile but is clearly still processing what’s happened as the train approaches the platform.

The incident has truly brightened my morning. I feel myself smiling, inside and out. As the train stops, Sue and Cath walk down the platform to the next carriage. Sue is looking straight ahead. Cath is looking at Sue, smiling but still processing, waiting. They will no doubt carry on with a discussion about what’s just occurred. I get on the train the better for what I’ve just seen and very pleased that my name isn’t Roger, or Ian, Glen and especially Darren.


*Names changed for anonymity

A Moral for mobile users on a train

“Hello” shouts Loud Woman (LW) into her mobile with an upward inflection. After a short pause, “I’m on the train”, this even louder. Another pause then, “Yeah, can’t talk, carriage full o’ people. I’ll be home in twenty minutes.”

LW is now listening intently but interjects randomly, and still unnecessarily loudly, with “Can’t be!”, short laughter burst then, “She wouldn’t!”, inward gasp of breath, “Huh” and then “Nooo!” and so it continues.

I see the faces and body language of fellow passengers betraying their thoughts about her. Some adjectives visually audible include: Ignorant, thoughtless, arrogant, ill-mannered, ill-bred, boorish.

Finally, LW states in decibels allied to a megaphone,
“Have you told her to stop?” This is immediately countered with impeccable timing by the words
“I wish you’d bloody stop!” There is instant laughter; from short “Ha’s” to one woman’s belly laugh and accompanying tears; a few people clapping; several people stunned into a heightened silence; and others shuffling in their seats whispering.

The man who spoke – a carriage hero to many, is seated two rows behind LW. She looks around the carriage, appearing unsure why the atmosphere has changed and mirth is in the air. Her face then contorts and shoulders rise towards her tensing neck as she realises the comment is directed at her; the stares, laughter, claps, all for her. She tries to look behind but cannot turn. She is hemmed in by her ample frame, limited in flexibility and the equally large man seated next to her. He looks at her smiling. She is deciding whether he is trying to be polite, or enjoying the joke in her face.

LW’s expression now speaks louder than she does. Shall I continue talking? What do I say? Should I be angry? Who with? The audience viewing this free, live, impromptu play is hooked. They are all wondering: What will she do next?
“I’ll call you back!” says LW finally and in a lower tone. There is an inaudible but perceptible collective sigh.

Oh but that this would be the end of the matter for LW. Instead, her mobile rings and it’s even louder than her voice. The ring tone is ‘The Birdy Song'.
“Oh dear God!” shouts Carriage Hero. The captive audience love it and roar with laughter. LW fumbles with her mobile in both hands, as if it’s a hot potato and quickly cancels the call. She then fumbles with it some more, I suspect to turn off the power.

At the next stop LW alights. To her credit she does this with a certain coolness and dignity (I could not see from where I was seated whether she scanned faces for her nemesis). This cool exterior, however, is soon identified as false, for once the doors close and the train pulls away, a fellow passenger is overheard by some and then whispers around the carriage follow, confirming
“That’s not her stop. She’s got another two to go.”

There are, arguably, several morals to this tale for regular commuters. Surely, though, the most crucial is: The ‘Birdy Song’ must never, ever, be used as a ringtone!!