Deeply, deeply sad
23 June 2003 22:02![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
mandragoraThe 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.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
strange trainfellows
Date: 23 June 2003 15:00 (UTC)Never give your name to a stranger, definitely the way. I think I've given just about every name under the sun out in an attempt to not give the real one!
Re: strange trainfellows
Date: 23 June 2003 15:18 (UTC)So, um, not British then? *g*
Good advice about not giving out your real name, but in my case it wasn't because I feared that he was the mad stalker type, it was more that I was worried about being talked to death!
Re: strange trainfellows
Date: 23 June 2003 20:27 (UTC)no subject
Date: 23 June 2003 15:51 (UTC)*hugs Mandragora* Well the short association you have with me should have told you that anyone that has an inch of greek blood can talk you to death or boredom LOL
But definitely poor you, I so understand what you mean, especially with the mother in tow, ewww.
no subject
Date: 25 June 2003 11:31 (UTC)Hope as I type this you're having fun at the summer party.
Condolences
Date: 23 June 2003 19:58 (UTC)And I knew there was a reason I don't do public transportation here locally. Thanks for reminding me. :)
Re: Condolences
Date: 25 June 2003 11:30 (UTC)Eeek! Scary thought. I know all about embarrassing grandmothers - my paternal grandmother was a prime example of the species, prone to making extremely personal remarks about other people within eye - and ear - shot in a very loud voice.
As for not doing public transport... at least I don't mind rush hour so much - there's no chance of being trapped with him at that time.
What a silver-lining seeing mood I'm in.
*g*
no subject
Date: 24 June 2003 02:19 (UTC)I suppose with a trolley of books and stuff it's harder to leapt off at one stop and hop back onto the next carriage down of the same train...
Heh, heh, heh.
no subject
Date: 25 June 2003 11:26 (UTC)*g*
Am back travelling in rush hour for the rest of the week. I almost welcome it as it means I won't be running into talk-a-lot.
off-topic, kinda -
Date: 2 July 2003 08:29 (UTC)Anyway, re-read your highlander fic 'tant..', after coming across it a few months ago and love the history and depth even more the second time round.
(That was why i friended you, by the way, saw your name and found out you were the same person.)
Came close to tears a few times and the end was one big longlasting ache. Funny, and very hot too.
And i'm not too good at this fb thing. I just end up saying i really enjoyed it in as many different ways possible.
I really enjoyed it, thankyou. :-) Hope you keep writing.
Re: off-topic, kinda -
Date: 2 July 2003 12:51 (UTC)Hmm, sounds intriguing...
Thank you so much for the lovely comments about TQJV - they're much appreciated. I was especially gratified to read that you enjoyed it in many different ways - can't tell you how wonderful that is to read.
I am keeping writing, when time permits, which unfortunately isn't much. Sigh.
I friended you back partly because I read that you live in London - it's always good to learn about another London slasher. LMK if you're interested in coming along the next time we have another London slasher meet.
Re: off-topic, kinda -
Date: 3 July 2003 06:43 (UTC)*squinty-eyed suspicious stare*
Actually, that sounds like fun! - I get to see the faces behind the kinks. ;)
Count me in and thanks for the welcome.