I have booked my seat.
My seat-reservation is for coach C, seat number 29, facing the direction of travel, and conveniently next to the aisle.
I occupy my seat and, with some difficulty in the limited space, open my broadsheet newspaper.
The train departs.
Leaving behind all that urban graffiti, we cruise through delightful countryside.
Nobody has yet occupied the window-seat, number 28, so I have an uninterrupted view.
The train stops.
There are the usual public announcements –
“Take your belongings …”
“Mind the gap when alighting.”
“Passengers for Wigan must change at Timbuktu!”
Some passengers alight.
New ones get on board.
“Excuse me,” says a large lady pointing to seat number 28, “I think that’s my seat.”
I re-fold my newspaper, arise from my seat and move into the aisle.
Lady has a big suitcase. I offer to place it on the overhead rack.
“Oh, how kind!” says she.
The suitcase is very heavy!
She compacts herself into the seat by the window.
I ignore serious transverse pain in my chest.
Under the irresistible force of gravity, her generous frame, having nowhere else to go, spreads laterally.
I smile and re-occupy seat number 29.
Somehow there doesn’t seem to be quite so much room.
“Are you travelling far?” I enquire in a friendly tone.
“Oh, yes, all the way!” she responds.
I am somewhat alarmed by her broad-gauge smile.
(Did I tell you that this train is the one from Penzance to Newcastle, and we haven’t passed Newton Abbot yet?!)
I re-open my newspaper. I think I’ll settle for one of the tabloids next time, or perhaps a small paperback.
Five minutes after leaving the station the lady asks, “Is there a buffet car on the train?”
“Oh, yes,” say I, (somewhat hesitantly because I can feel what’s coming,) “I think that’s in coach D, further back.”
“Fine,” she says, “I think I’ll pay a visit.”
With my newspaper now in a state of serious disarray, I get out of my seat to allow lady access to the aisle. Lady emerges from her airline-type seat with some difficulty. She heads off towards the front of the train.
I decide to take the opportunity, while standing in the aisle, of reconstructing my newspaper.
Lady realises that coach D is in the opposite direction.
She apologises profusely as she squeezes past me once more.
Coincidentally the train lurches violently over a series of points.
Jiggerley-juggerley-dum-didderley-dum-dudderly-di-jiggerley-jug!
This onomatopoeic interlude accompanies an unforeseen entangling of limbs in order that we both manage to retain an upright posture.
Lady smiles sweetly and asks, “Is there anything you would like?”
Her voluminous bosom threatens to engulf my slender frame.
I blush.
She doesn’t!
“No, thank you!”
I tentatively sit down again, savouring the unworthy hope that there will be a very long queue at the buffet.
I search for my newspaper.
Did I lose it in her cleavage?
I don’t remember!
My earlier hope is not realised. Within minutes lady is once again at my side bearing a brown paper bag bulging with all sorts of artery-clogging goodies in one hand, and a large cup of something liquid, held at a precarious angle, in the other. Our earlier manoeuvrings are reversed. This time there is less physical contact, although some strange fluid has been spilled on my seat.
She sits.
I try to sit.
Now there’s even less room.
My bottom now feels moist.
Lady spreads the contents of her goody-bag over her own fold-down table … and half of mine.
“Would you like something?”
I politely accept ... a crisp. (Eeugh – prawn cocktail!)
To continue a description of this lady's noisy consumption of this pre-packaged repast would be unsavoury and unkind.
Anyway, I think she likes me.
I should be grateful ...
Not many people do!
I am getting irritable.
I've got a wet bum.
I am finding it difficult to breathe, though, thankfully, the chest-pain has gone.
I’d really like my newspaper back.
I daren’t look for it!
Achieving what comfort I can in a restricted space, I engage compassionate and forgiving thoughts while looking at the inside of my eyelids.
I pray for sleep to come.
My repose is soon interrupted ... “I think I need to go - err - you know where.”
Now, visualise this ...
Two fold-down tables full of detritus with nowhere to go, large person with full bladder and a 'need to go' trying to negotiate a small space ... and me ...
I stood no chance!
Once more, after scattering rubbish everywhere, we dance momentarily in the aisle.
She smiles flirtatiously again, while playfully caressing my left nipple.
While she’s away in the loo I pick up my small rucksack from under my seat, abandon all hopes of retrieving my newspaper, (wherever it may be,) and make for the ‘quiet zone’ coach.
This anecdote has a basis in historical fact.
I have made only very slight embellishments to the truth!
3 comments:
Isn't "Jiggerley-juggerley-dum-didderley-dum-dudderly-di-jiggerley-jug" the chorus to one of your more obscure traditional folk songs, one about the doxy who meets a comestibles-purveyor on the sea-shore, wanting her tin kettle mended, but he sits down and fiddles instead (or possibly as well) until his shot-locker is spent, although he promises to return next Frummity and she plants rue in her garden fair, despite it making your eyes water just to think of it? (Child 632?)
No, but I'll work on it.
I have in mind ‘A Lament on the Death of Sir William Huskisson’.
It was he, one-time MP for Chichester, who represented the world’s first fatal railway casualty.
He was run over by Stephenson’s locomotive 'Rocket' at the opening of the Liverpool and Manchester Railway in 1830.
There is a memorial to him in Eartham Church.
Ah, a "folk song" about death, eh? Most unusual. You could usefully add verses about other great Twits, e.g. the Union General John Sedgwick who chastised his troops who were sheltering from snipers by declaiming "They couldn't hit an elephant at this distance", whereupon he was shot dead. (see http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/John_Sedgwick).
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