Waterloo sunset
Well, that was the strangest journey home ever.
I left work after a few glasses of wine (apparently we have a rule that no one can leave on friday until they're at least slightly pissed) and pootled gently to Waterloo station. There I had been tasked with buying an Embarrassing Personal Product for an elderly relative who is having difficulties of an intimate nature. (That's PR for 'granny's got haemorrhoids', in case you were wondering.) So I'm standing at the counter about to pay when I realise that the sales assistant - some cocky little 12 year old - is giggling at my purchase and can't meet my eyes. I'm afraid my inner devil got the better of me, because I leaned across the counter and said in my most terribly discreet whisper "It's the slamming, you know. I can barely sit down."
I don't think anyone else heard me but it certainly didn't help the poor kid's giggles. Honestly, I should know better.
Some five minutes later I'm walking through the station on the way to platform 18, sniggering to myself (I'm easily pleased, okay?), when I find myself accosted by a quite charming blond gentleman who is in need of the time. I'm feeling quite chatty by this point so we natter about nothing in particular for a bit - turns out he's a primary schoolteacher, name of Nick, in his late 20s, lives up Hampstead way. I'm not quite sure how it happened, but I appear to have left with his phone number. I'd be tempted, but honestly, what hope is there that a man you meet on Friday 13th (and while laughing about anal suppositories to boot) is going to be anything but trouble? And how on earth would we explain it to our grandkids?
I left work after a few glasses of wine (apparently we have a rule that no one can leave on friday until they're at least slightly pissed) and pootled gently to Waterloo station. There I had been tasked with buying an Embarrassing Personal Product for an elderly relative who is having difficulties of an intimate nature. (That's PR for 'granny's got haemorrhoids', in case you were wondering.) So I'm standing at the counter about to pay when I realise that the sales assistant - some cocky little 12 year old - is giggling at my purchase and can't meet my eyes. I'm afraid my inner devil got the better of me, because I leaned across the counter and said in my most terribly discreet whisper "It's the slamming, you know. I can barely sit down."
I don't think anyone else heard me but it certainly didn't help the poor kid's giggles. Honestly, I should know better.
Some five minutes later I'm walking through the station on the way to platform 18, sniggering to myself (I'm easily pleased, okay?), when I find myself accosted by a quite charming blond gentleman who is in need of the time. I'm feeling quite chatty by this point so we natter about nothing in particular for a bit - turns out he's a primary schoolteacher, name of Nick, in his late 20s, lives up Hampstead way. I'm not quite sure how it happened, but I appear to have left with his phone number. I'd be tempted, but honestly, what hope is there that a man you meet on Friday 13th (and while laughing about anal suppositories to boot) is going to be anything but trouble? And how on earth would we explain it to our grandkids?