Train of thought

"What the hell am I going to write about?"

This was the question I asked myself whilst sat on the train, heading home at the end of yet another wholly uneventful day.

Gazing out at the blurred landscape through a ran-splattered window offered little inspiration, so I drag myself away from my musings for a few seconds to see if I had a clear line of sight to 'Gorgeous Train Lady'

I do not.

She's sat a few seats in front of me, facing me, but my view is obscured by a forest of hairstyles belonging to fellow commuters. I catch a brief glimpse of her centre parting as one of the hairstyles is caught off guard by an explosive cough...but that's my lot.

I first spotted Gorgeous Train Lady (from herein referred to as GTL) a year or so ago. The daily commute has no shortage of attractive souls to distract the eye and the mind, but I barely give them a second thought these days. GTL however, was different. There was something about her, something I cant distil or explain, but something none the less.

Of course I'll never speak to her, oh no that's not how I do things. I may risk the occasional fleeting moment of eye contact, but even that can lead to disappointment, if my gaze is not met with similar sentiment, or even worse...horror of horrors...I see deep in those pale eyes the seed of disgust.

I'm jerked back into the carriage by the tonnes of iron which surround me, it shudders as it enters the dark gape of tunnel. Looking around I see silent conversations, silent because I'm listening to my ipod. As my ears a denied the content of these exchanges my eyes take over, carefully reading each expression.

My seat is comfortable, and most importantly free of moisture (a subtle swipe of the hand before being seated is essential on public transport). The seat next to me lies empty, an advantage of being a scruffy smoker with paedophillic facial hair. Nothing worse than being cramped in a seat next to a 'seat hog', every stroke of their finger on their mobile phone screen delivering a painful jab into my ribs.

Most trains have a unique fug, one which can punch it's way through to my smoke damaged nasal receptors. Usually a heady combination of halitosis, BO, perfume, and the occasional hint of turd. But not this one, not today, this train is eerily fug free, again this pleases me.

I allow my eyes to wander around the carriage again and they fall on a cocky shaven-headed bloke, actually cocky isn't a fair description, bit too heavy on the letters...cock...cock is a far more accurate accolade. Now don't go berating me for being judgemental, books by their covers and all that. I know this man is a cock because I have encountered him many times before, usually brushing me aside as he dashes off the train to get to wherever he's going. I often assume he must have a human kidney in his pocket, and those vital few seconds he saves by barging through a sea of passengers could mean the difference between life or deaf to a poor little orphan boy...little orphan boy Timmy "Little Timmy needs a new kidney and there is not a second to spare!"

I've held my gaze too long, and my face has lapsed into an involuntary scowl, he's noticed and is returning the favour with a scowl of his own, not as impressive as mine I'll wager (I scowl in my sleep), but a scowl none the less. How to get out of this one? A cough maybe, let my eyelids fall as if in a drowsy stupor? In the end I opt for the 'sneer and window stare', that way I get to back down but still have the final word...so to speak.

I see him again on the way home, the light catches a lawn of fiery stubble on his chin...


..he is an angry ginger in denial.

So we meet again...

So here I am, blogging again, back by popular demand!

Well I say popular demand, in truth two, maybe three people have expressed a desire to read my ramblings again. It baffles me as to why. But hey, I not complaining I enjoy writing. It's just sometimes it's hard, not the writing bit, the writing bit is fairly easy, its the finding stuff to write about.

Truth is...not a lot goes on in my life, and what does go on is fairly dull. Sure, I can pad it out a bit, use a bit of creative license, but you can only polish a turd so much. Be too eager, vigorous with the brush and you're left not with a shiny coprolite, but with a gooey brown mess on your hands and a bit of explaining to do.

So why did I stop before?

There are a few answers to that question.

Firstly, and probably most significantly, I'm lazy, very lazy. Like I mentioned before, writing takes effort, and effort can be easily avoided. Why spend hours wracking my brains for something to write, when I can just lay on my beloved sofa and soak up whatever shite the tellybox chooses to spray in my direction.

Secondly...Twitter. Twitter gives me instant access to vent my frustrations and thoughts, why bottle it up and keep the best bits for a once weekly feature, when I can blurt out 24-7 any old crap I choose to whenever I like. Sure most of it's chaff, but every now and then there will be the odd grain of wheat tucked in there too.

Lastly, as I touched on before, my life is incredibly dull, mostly my own doing but what chance do I have with such a predisposition to chronic laziness and loafing. And although I'm relatively content...no...resigned to the dullness of life, it doesn't really make good reading.

But I'm back now and I'll do my best to keep you entertained. Failing that I'm sure I pick up a few readers who will linger for the 'car crash' factor, just popping in now and then to look on in awe and disgust at the text which befalls their eyes.

Anyway that's more than enough for now. Don't want to overdo it, peak too soon, fly too close to the sun etc etc.


Also I want a drink.

Ta Ta for now

Stoaty X