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Deeply, deeply sad
23 June 2003 22:02The thing you have to understand if you're not British is that we don't talk to one another on public transport. Ever. It just isn't done. Well, maybe if you're on a really long journey, or you've been travelling on the same commuter route for years.
But not when you're on a 20 minute train ride to the office.
My first mistake was deciding to work at home this morning.
The second was just missing the train (not really my fault, my damn printer decided to throw a hissy fit). Although I heard a train going past as I was walking along the railway path I wasn't certain, so waited for a while in an unreasonable fit of optimism to check that the train wasn't just late until it reached the time when there was no point heading for the tube instead as it would be quicker to wait for the next train.
That was the third mistake.
He was middle-aged and innocuous. Looked like a middle-class, slighty sad British trainspotter type. He wasn't. He was worse.
He had his aged mother in tow, who turned out to Greek-Cypriot. Son was obviously bought up in Blighty and I'm guessing had a British father as well. He really did not look Greek.
She tells me, via his translation, that she likes what I'm wearing. I smile politely. Son tells me that mother never wears trousers but seeing as I look so nice in mine maybe she'll give them a try. I make some polite comment in reply.
This opens the floodgates. He never, and I mean never shuts up.
He's taking his mother to Gyndebourne, via Victoria, where they're going to pick up a picnic - she's not really into opera but he's teaching her about it, because he's a musician you know, went to the Royal Academy, used to teach for a while, the cello you know, and he had a class of 60 kids and only 10 of them gave it up by the end of the year and that was really good because he was told to only choose 12 and they only had 6 cellos and--
Great! The train arrives. Escape beckons.
Ack! The train is practically empty. I take a seat. He sits next to me with his mother across the aisle.
And continues talking. I learn all (and I do mean all) about his forthcoming hernia operation, with a side-tour down the route to and from hospital. Then he points out his house just by the railway line and then complains that his mother owns a flat right next door to her house but she won't let him live in it (I wonder why!) and prefers to let it out to asylum seekers who don't pay the rent and he's got no money because he's doing a Masters at present and isn't teaching and--
His mother interjects - in Greek - that he's talking too much.
Oh God, no! This is his signal to learn All About Mandragora. He guesses that I'm a lawyer (damn) because I've got the usual lawyer's document trolley with me. So, he asks me my name. And I lie. And my legal specialisation. Another lie. And what firm I work for. Lie number 3.
Thing is, I have a pretty unusual name, both first name and surname, and if I'd told him my real name and firm he could have tracked me down.
No, no, no!
He then asks me whether I attend church, looking at me hopefully. Mandragora tells the truth. It's a miracle! She's an agnostic who doesn't go to church and--
Oh look, it's their stop!
Yes! Peace at last. I settle back to read my book and make a mental note to never, ever get the train at this time again.
Ever.
But not when you're on a 20 minute train ride to the office.
My first mistake was deciding to work at home this morning.
The second was just missing the train (not really my fault, my damn printer decided to throw a hissy fit). Although I heard a train going past as I was walking along the railway path I wasn't certain, so waited for a while in an unreasonable fit of optimism to check that the train wasn't just late until it reached the time when there was no point heading for the tube instead as it would be quicker to wait for the next train.
That was the third mistake.
He was middle-aged and innocuous. Looked like a middle-class, slighty sad British trainspotter type. He wasn't. He was worse.
He had his aged mother in tow, who turned out to Greek-Cypriot. Son was obviously bought up in Blighty and I'm guessing had a British father as well. He really did not look Greek.
She tells me, via his translation, that she likes what I'm wearing. I smile politely. Son tells me that mother never wears trousers but seeing as I look so nice in mine maybe she'll give them a try. I make some polite comment in reply.
This opens the floodgates. He never, and I mean never shuts up.
He's taking his mother to Gyndebourne, via Victoria, where they're going to pick up a picnic - she's not really into opera but he's teaching her about it, because he's a musician you know, went to the Royal Academy, used to teach for a while, the cello you know, and he had a class of 60 kids and only 10 of them gave it up by the end of the year and that was really good because he was told to only choose 12 and they only had 6 cellos and--
Great! The train arrives. Escape beckons.
Ack! The train is practically empty. I take a seat. He sits next to me with his mother across the aisle.
And continues talking. I learn all (and I do mean all) about his forthcoming hernia operation, with a side-tour down the route to and from hospital. Then he points out his house just by the railway line and then complains that his mother owns a flat right next door to her house but she won't let him live in it (I wonder why!) and prefers to let it out to asylum seekers who don't pay the rent and he's got no money because he's doing a Masters at present and isn't teaching and--
His mother interjects - in Greek - that he's talking too much.
Oh God, no! This is his signal to learn All About Mandragora. He guesses that I'm a lawyer (damn) because I've got the usual lawyer's document trolley with me. So, he asks me my name. And I lie. And my legal specialisation. Another lie. And what firm I work for. Lie number 3.
Thing is, I have a pretty unusual name, both first name and surname, and if I'd told him my real name and firm he could have tracked me down.
No, no, no!
He then asks me whether I attend church, looking at me hopefully. Mandragora tells the truth. It's a miracle! She's an agnostic who doesn't go to church and--
Oh look, it's their stop!
Yes! Peace at last. I settle back to read my book and make a mental note to never, ever get the train at this time again.
Ever.
