wild pigs and standing room only
You’ll go under if you’re not careful. No one will care that you’ve fallen beneath the train, as long as they’re all sardined packed and on their way home. They’ll write about you in the papers the next day, and wonder how you got down there. They’ll call it suicide. A yobbing. Maybe just too much Pinot Grigio. But those of us rushing through the station to catch the 5.41 will know.
Trying to get standing-room-only on a train headed west just after five is not for the faint hearted. If the lady with the fake Fendi or the guy in the dirty tweed can knock you out of the way and use your head for a stepping board, they’ll do it.
Three times I’ve almost fallen into the crack between the platform and the commuter nightmare – courtesy of a good hard shove. I’ve battled my first two ‘pushers’ many a time: an insurance broker who I call Otis (Lex Luthor’s dimwitted sidekick) and a banker with a bad hair cut. The third perp Ive not seen since the morning he tried to shoulder me into the hole and under the carriage.
I tried being nice – in the beginning. Southern manners and all that. Oh you first. By all means. No not at all. It’s ok. I’m in no hurry. blah blah blah. Nice gets you left on the platform, apologising to the office. So sorry. Be there soon. Sometimes it gets you fired.
These days, its different.
I look ‘em straight in the eye. Let ‘em know whose boss. They may be public transport veterans, but I’m an old cow hand who grew up on a farm herding cattle through briers, branches and creeks. I’ve stared down running bulls. Been drug by a stud horse. Chased after wild pigs.
Office workers don’t scare me.
Now that I know the rules, I shoulder with the best of them. I hold my bag tight. Brace myself like a defensive lineman. Growl when I have to, snarl when I don’t. Ain’t nobody keeping me off that train. I’m going home.
i am always drawn…
“I am always drawn back to places where I have lived, the houses and their neighborhoods.”
Truman Capote
Breakfast at Tiffanys
what i want for christmas by buffy m holt
My 4 year old niece phoned me the other day from America. Told me she spoke to Santa on the phone – a colourful cousin with a southern drawl. He was bringing her a Cinderella Magical Talking Vanity (If it tells you you’re gorgeous…i’ll take two please.) Santa hasn’t phoned me yet. But when he does, here’s what I want:
1. Bose SoundDock Digital Music System (Groove me baby.)
2. Spanish Riding Boots (I haven’t ridden in years. So what.)
3. My favourite Kanebo eye cream. (Im almost out)
4. Writing Pens (Yes. I still write.)
5. Maria La Rosa Ribbed Wool Leg Warmers (At home only.)
6. Diptyque Bois Cire Candles (Best Candle Ever.)
7. A trip to my favourite day spa (Something Decleor please)
8. A certain pair of flashy studs (hint hint)
9. Cashmere Throw (I’m always cold. I live in throws.)
10. Large Mason Pearson Pure Bristle Brush (I have too much hair)
Smelly cheese, good wine and fine chocolate.
Stick a fork in me. Im done.
