Mid week II

... so, the flash(er) train strike then .. hmm ... when these things happen, the trains on my line try to make amends by stopping at every station that exists .... the ones that used to exist but don't really exist any more, but , hey, what the hell ...

In the event, not only are we late but we're even much more later, what with the fifty thousand extra stations to stop at ... pffft

Generally, we steam through these stations every day and there's no-one, not a soul, waiting on the platforms - they're just godforsaken ghost stations.

But when there's a strike, people must communicate telepathically, as one entity, they all decide to go and check out what's going on ... especially old people .... the old, senile, gobby, huffy ones "i fought in the war you know", kind of old people ....

For whatever reason, old wrinklies from miles around decide that today's the day to go to town (at rush hour) to go shopping.... like some kind of outing ... or some alternative to rutting season for oldies ... i'm convinced that it's all synchronised by either an old wrinkly "lets piss people off" committe or it's the the G*d of old ratbags that talks to them in their snoring snarffing sleep.

Walking guilt trip, kind of old people ... "i fought nazi germany, i did, so's you'd be able to sit down on them there seats ... ooohhhhh my poor old legs .."

Unfortunately, with the constant 'ksst ksst ksst' of I-pods and people feigning sleep, the oldies don't stand a snowballs chance in hell of guilt tripping anybody these days (the've gotta find a new scam, if you ask me).

As for me, i'm one of those " I'm asleep, can't hear anything, even though i'm acutely aware of what's going on around me" sort of people.

I use those periods for thinking ... y'know ... 'bout stuff ... about 'things'.

I 'dote'... on places i've been, people i've known, things i've done or seen ...

... ex-girlfriends (especially) ...

My parents....


Sometimes, i wonder what my mother would have thought about how her youngest turned out.

She was a non practising catholic .. i can't rememember her going to church and suchlike, but i do remember, whenever i tripped up, banged my head or whatever.. her wild exclamations of "jesus mary and Joseph" all rolled into one long word, in her lilting irish accent.

I was remeniscing today about the wild panic when, as a four year old, i almost cut the tops off of all my fingers with an old tin can.

Blood pissing all over the place, me stumbling into the living room saying "maaaam ....!".

Her going wanly white "jesusmaryan'joseph, i'll go foind yer da .. doncha go to sleep now, y'hear me ? So help me god oil be slappin' ya if you go ti sleep on me, son" ..

Before i knew it, she'd torn to shreds a clean sheet from the washing line in the garden and swaddled my little mits so that they resembled huge footballs !

Paradoxically, she made me lie down on the settee, all the while saying, "ho, doncha be going to sleep now, y'hear me ?" .. a bit difficult when half of your life source has re-coloured the carpet a tasteful shade of deep burgundy and the fun of it all is starting to wear off.

After a trip to the hospital, a dose of something that made me go pleasantly woozy, stitches all over the place ... i went to school the next day with what can only be described as what looked like astronaut gloves !!!!!

"Whooooaaaa cooooool ... wos all that den ... yer got stitches ? show us yer stitches den .." said my ghoulish little class mates.