Well, I’ve barely been back in the UK for 24 hours and I already have an all-new train adventure to tell you about. I mean, I didn’t expect this much excitement so soon after returning home to Blighty, but as they say, “It’s all go round ‘ere!”
It all began when I dragged my jetlagged self into Central London on Saturday to meet a friend for lunch, with us starting out in the South Bank and ending up at a curry house in Soho. Okay, so the vindaloo nearly killed me (more like blew the back of my bloody head off), but I managed to survive both it and the usual swarm of Saturday afternoon humanity one tends to encounter on Oxford Street. I’m sure my face was still beet-red from the crowds and the vindaloo by the time I reached Tottenham Court Road tube station, having to reroute myself there after the big Gaza demonstration screwed up any chances of making it into the Oxford Circus station, let alone crossing the road to John Lewis, where I’d hoped to find an adaptor. Instead I glommed onto two confused-looking women and hurled myself in the opposite direction, just wanting to get the hell out of there asap.
The tube wasn’t very interesting, but my train ride back to Essex was. (If you’ve been keeping up with my blog posts you’ll know that something always seems to happen on my train.) Being an early Saturday evening my car was crowded with passengers on their way home from their various outtings in the city, so I sat with a trio of lads, who instantly took me under their protective wings and welcomed me to their little party. I must’ve looked more lost and forlorn than usual, so I was happy for the distraction and hilarity they provided – and they provided it aplenty! Indeed, there was never a dull moment with this charming troika, who started out by offering me polite little smiles, after which proper introductions ensued. Obviously I didn’t tell them that I’m a famous author of both erotic literature and revenge stories. After all, a woman must maintain some aura of mystery, right?
I had a front-row seat as one of them received a phone call, the booming male voice on the other end giving him a right bollocking for not turning up for a job interview. The rest of us were trying to contain our laughter so as not to make the situation any worse for the hapless job seeker, but we weren’t too successful. I don’t usually like to laugh at other people’s misfortunes, but in this case I made an exception. He probably wouldn’t have gotten the job anyway. I mean, if he’d wanted it badly enough he would’ve gone for the interview surely? He soon saw the funny side of it after the caller rang off, whereupon he decided to discuss Michael Jackson until I cut him off, informing him that I can’t stand Michael Jackson.
After disclosing that two of them were aged 19, with the one next to me a seasoned old man of 20, the lad across from me (their chief spokesperson from what I gathered) played a game of “Guess the Accent” and got mine right on the second try (Canadian is usually the first guess). He next began to interview me as to my relationship status, gaping in disbelief when I told him. He digested this information for a moment, then asked politely and respectfully if I’d consider going out with him, only to engage the shy lad beside me into this romantic discussion, suggesting to him that he might “walk the nice lady home” from the train station – that “nice lady” being me. Seems all three of them wanted to walk me home, and it wasn’t even dark yet! Who says there’s no gallantry in the Englishman? – or, for that matter, the Essex chav? And before you scoff, let me say this: I didn’t hear one single curse or foul word pass through the lips of these lads. Now if that isn’t proof that God exists, I don’t know what is.
Anyway, they invited me out for a night on the town (or rather the town we all coincidentally live in). In fact, there was even a mention of a dozen red roses. Although I didn’t give them a definite answer, I didn’t say no either. Just before they got off the train at Romford (they decided to kill some time at The Brewery since I’d said I was jetlagged and planned to just crash at home for the night), I was given the phone number of their head honcho.
I tell you, if an artist had to paint my life, it would definitely be Salvador Dalí were he still alive. Nevertheless, I have to admit, those lads from the train made me laugh, and they were very sweet and gentlemanly too. I could do worse. (And honey, I have!)
So what do you think? Should I take them up on their offer?
Depends if you like bringing smiles of disbelief to young boys.
What *do* you tell people you do for a living, if you don’t want to tell them you’re an erotica/revenge fantasy writer? 🙂
rather that than bringing smiles of disbelief to old boys. :p
i say i’m a writer. isn’t that what i am?
When I used to say I was a writer, the next obvious question was “What have you writtten?” or “What do you write?”
Oh bless their hearts, they sound lovely!
As for the writing thing, am I right in guessing that the next question when told the truth tends to be along the “Do you need any new inspiration?” (wink wink nudge nudge ‘oh look at me I’m so clever’) line of thought?
Cx
I say that if the question of what do you write comes up just give them a smile and say fictional adult educational material. Then when they get that look about the three of them that tells you that they’re trying to use their good brain cells, wink and tell them to use their over active imaginations and they might get close to what you write.
welcome
it’s not really an issue. i write a lot of things and if people actually read most of what i write, they’d realise it isn’t pigeonhole-able. it’s only those who haven’t read the majority of my work who make assumptions about content. and about me.
Trust you Instincts Mitzi 🙂
Do what you feel will make you happy.
Gosh, that’s a tough one. If this happened to me in Philly, I would have joined the conversation but said no. But London seems more laid back than here. Whatever you decide, you’ll have grist for your next book.
Good luck!
i don’t need any grist. tbh, they were really just nice lads. and i’ll tell you this for free: they were far more mature and had their shit together a hell of a lot more than any of the misfits (aka “men”) i’ve had the ill luck to get done over by.
That was a pleasant episode and best left at that, really. It’s up to you, mind. 🙂
I think you should do what you feel is right. They do seem rather nice and if you can build a new set of friendships from it then fantastic.
Go for it
You’re a girl after my own heart, Mitzi. I also love engaging people in conversation on trains.
I don’t know that I’d have taken them up on the offer of a walk home – unless it was dark.
Just one question… Is it common to use the word “Chav” where you come from, or are you a Rom?
I was just wondering. I’m a Rom from down under.
Cheers
Brittany K.
you mean Rom as in Romford? :p
No. Rom as in Romani, Gypsy. Chav is a Gypsy word for young man. I was wondering if it is widely used in some parts of the UK.
Cheers
Brittany K.
romany is used here for gypsies/travellers from a particular region. chav, however, has a negative connotation here. as does pikey.