More notes from trains

Back on trains again. The marginally nauseating rocking motion of this carriage is creating new anxieties. I casually look out of my window at the predictably beautiful surroundings that we thrust ourselves through at obscene speeds. Trees, lots of green and electricity pylons stretching for miles.

A man with tinted glasses is stroking the back of his head. Maybe it was itchy.

Snacks. Damn it I need snacks. I just purchased a can of Sprite and some boring salted Walkers from a suspicious trolley dude. Just as the transaction was taking place, my thirst for snacks accelerated and peaked. I was already spending silly dollars on some domesticated crisps and a can of pop when the urge to gorge on a Lion bar took over.

Being honest, the urge wasn’t conceived in such a specific manner. Once it became evident that no other chocolatey snacks were being offered I said, “Sorry mate, could I get a Lion bar as well.”

Why do I do it? Why do I always apologise? I’m not a reformed Nazi, I’ve nothing to be ashamed of. Perhaps my general appearance brings out the intrinsic apologist in me. But I do it all the time. What a pathetic and weak habit to have formed.

Sorry mate!

Firstly, I don’t even know the guy. He’s no friend of mine and certainly no “mate”. I mean, as I said, I hadn’t exactly warmed to the guy. In fact, if anything, he seemed a touch untrustworthy. Suspicious, shifty. Eyes darting this way and that.

So all things considered, I shouldn’t have been apologising to the person I was about to hand over more serious cash for a piddling Lion bar. Maybe if I was wanting to swap my crisps for a miniature bottle of gin, then an apology would seem appropriate as there would be a bit of explaining to do.

He took my apology like the steely professional that he was: grateful and officious yet still smacking of suspicion. Maybe he just has that kind of face.

“Sorry mate, could I get a Lion bar as well?” What a prick.

With just a cautious slip of the eye, he delved his hand towards the confectionary department of his mini mobile larder. The Lion bar I had greedily spied was nestling amongst some flapjacks, and as he extracted my treat from the crowded trolley I watched in horror as the Lion bar grew in size.

I thought I was tripping.

Only a fraction of a second passed and I, scratching my worried eyes, was faced with a KING SIZE LION BAR.

Oh shit. Oh dear dear.

Eighty grams of “caramel, filled wafer, and crisp cereal drenched in milk chocolate”! My word. I wondered, have I the stomach for it? The craving I originally had was for NO MORE THAN fifty grams of chocolate stuffs. Why this set weight has settled in my mind, only time will tell.

One day, I hope someone will explain why pop is sold in 330 ml cans and chocolate in 50 gram bars. Such conditioning is difficult to overcome. Would I ever conceivably want to drink more than one can of Sprite in one sitting? I think we both know the answer.

No.

And there’s the rub. My KING SIZE LION BAR slipped down a treat. It was like there was a debate in my mouth, chocolate was invited and I was chairing. And the verdict? I feel a touch bloated, yes (understandable) but also a glorious sense of adventure. I’ve widened my horizons; I’ve pushed the envelope. I felt the fear, but fuck you I did it anyway!

* * *

Just went to the toilet. For every trip travelled alone, I have the fun decision of which of my valuables will be accompanying me on my jaunt to the tiny bog. All my bags? No. Too much. Can of Sprite? Again, overkill. Can I find the cheery medium? I look down the carriage. No one looks like a dirty thief, but then you’d say that about Pierce Brosnan and he nicks loads of really expensive shit in The Thomas Crown Affair. What have we learned?

I opt for my phone and wallet. My bag can inconspicuously lie face down on the chair by the window. My walkman, house keys, books and collection of jogging bottoms are perilously at the mercy of petty theft, but something tells me it’s all going to be ok.

The door to the toilet is open and mocking. It stinks from well before the weird automatic doors that close while you walk through them rendering you a red-faced, squashed mess. Something (urine and spittle, presumably) is dribbling out of the door. I’m grateful that I’m not a lady at such times. I’m ungrateful that my shoes have holes in them at such times.

I notice, mid flow, that the disturbing silver knob that I’m instructed to press in order to flush what must be harmless piss down the loo, has a sign next to it. “DO NOT FLUSH IN STATIONS.” Why? If I did flush it, would my liquid waste erupt from a side hatch in the train and provide an uninvited (golden) shower to those who had originally planned to get on this train? Would that actually happen? It’s a good job the windows are made of frosted glass, or else the temptation to discover the truth would be too much.