Waiting for a potato

“Are you okay, Love?”

Oh, so now you finally recognise my look of disdain.

That horrible bastard who is apparently incapable of carrying his coin purse above ground level has rolled its giant wheels all over one of my smallest toes – so no, I am not okay, Love.

Now feel free to continue telling me which platform we’re on and what is about to arrive, every two minutes, because I’m sorry, I forgot why I was here. I thought perhaps I was waiting for a potato to shoot out from that dark hole in the distance. Please remind me to stand behind the yellow line, because I don’t know where to stand. I need you to SHOUT that at me.

What you should actually use your megaphone to shout about is the fact that sometimes, just sometimes, tube carriage space runs out. I know that’s obviously a completely unreasonable idea for me to throw out there, because of course space is a relative concept, “Move down, Love” and space is only what you perceive space to be, “Move down, Love” and space is infinite and space only ceases to exist when you stop thinking “MOVE”. And if you demand, once more, for me to move down so you can fit yourself into the 250mm of space left next to me, then you will cease to exist.

Because sometimes, just sometimes, when I have formed a perfect face print onto the back of Nigel’s suit jacket, maybe, just maybe, there’s not enough space left for you to join us on this glorious journey. No, we can’t move down, you ignorant bastard, so why don’t you take two minutes out of your precious time and wait for the next ride?

That never-ending two minutes, hey? Don’t worry, there are endless activities to fill that wait – write a sonnet, knit a jumper, start a family, roast a hog. Just do not attempt to stand next to me.

Oh, so you’re going to consume a whole apple as you stand next to me, are you?

I’m sure it’s severely important you crunch your way through a whole piece of fruit during the 12 minutes and 37 seconds that you are underground, because you know, you couldn’t possibly wait to bite once you’re back in natural light. Go ahead and gyrate your teeth against its green skin. And, please, slurp your apple.

What are you going to do with that core then? You have a whole core to dispose of there, what are you going to do with it? Okay, there’s a Tupperware box. You have pulled out a Tupperware box out of your rucksack. Of course you have, because you have 6 minutes and 22 seconds remaining, you must fill that with some fruit. You’re basically halfway through your journey, it’s half time, so that must mean you deserve a slice of orange or two.

You’ve stood in your kitchen this morning and sliced up an orange. You’ve sliced up an orange and you’ve placed the slices into a Tupperware box. You’ve placed the box into your rucksack. You’ve consciously sliced up an orange and placed it in a Tupperware box and into your rucksack – your emergency half time fruit.

And you are sucking it, sucking the flesh, pulling at the skin. Slurping.

Now that baby over there is looking. He wants some. He’s clapping. Why are you clapping, Baby? You’re applauding me? You are staring at me and applauding me? So what do you want me to do? Clap? Bow for you? Smile? Expose my tongue? Now the mum is looking at me. She’s looking down at the baby, and looking at me, both of them expectantly, desperately willing a reaction.

Why would I want to clap along with your baby? WHY? Why are you actively encouraging me to stare at your child? You will tell that baby in the near future “never talk to strangers” but right now you’re encouraging it, willing it, willing me to begin interaction. Sorry, I was told never talk to strange babies.

And yes, it’s a baby, well done. I too am blessed with the ability to produce one of those. It is quite possibly the least thing you should be proud of – oh let’s be proud of something that 78% of this tube carriage can achieve. Shall I count up to 10 for you, shall I? Look at me, I can count up to 10, just like you, just like her with her face in the Tupperware box. I can count up to ten. Look at me counting up to ten. 1…2….3…4,5,6…7..8,9…

“Are you okay, Love?”

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