Blimey, three excellent Doctor Who episodes in a row!
*holds up a round black plastic object*
Is this a record?
Anyway, if you've ever wondered how the old British class system is ticking along, the best possible time to find out is on public transport. During a mild crisis.
Two seconds after the news of the cancellation of every single train leaving from Paddington this morning due to a power failure had filtered through to the first class lounge (yeah yeah, if you book ahead it's only a tenner more, and the extra legroom is handy), a man in a suit turns bright red.
Man in a suit: I COULD HAVE TAKEN A CHAUFFEUR-DRIVEN CAR THIS MORNING!*
The lady in the yellow tabard smiles blankly. I am on her side.
News circulates that if we all peg it to the Tube, follow native guides to Waterloo and storm the platform, there is a possibility of a small train heading roughly South West. This we do, and I manage to find the first class bit, guessing that residual class fear will keep the commoners from taking any free seats for at least another ten minutes. I am correct.
It also becomes apparent that every single person in my carriage is, regardless of whether they bought a first class ticket or not, heading to Cornwall to stay in one of their second or third homes. The nice Irish lady next to me and I begin quietly plotting their deaths.
A ticket inspector comes through and announces that anyone not in possession of a first class ticket will have to move out. Everyone looks at me, because I am scruffy,with slightly mad hair and a hooded top. I take out my first class ticket, and rub tiredly at my right eye with my index finger, which means I am SECRETLY MAKING RUDE GESTURES AT THEM ALL. Hahahahah, twats.
One middle-aged lady is asked to give up her seat so a passenger with a first-class ticket can have a seat. She struggles loudly, and with poor grace, but eventually stands up. When the passenger himself arrives (bald man, suit), she draws herself up and brays poshly:
MIL: ARE YOU BRITISH?
Bald Man in Suit: (utterly unruffled) Yes.
He sits down. Rest of carriage glares at him. Nice Irish lady and I get the giggles.
More conversation ensues, mostly to do with the annoyance of how annoying it is to pay a small amount of council tax on a home you only use two weeks out of year. Then there is a debate about whether Plymouth is in Cornwall (it isn't).
Man in Tweed: No, you see, when the train gets past the bridge, all the little local people sort of huddle together and speak in Cornish.
Me: That's it, I'm going to KICK THEIR ARSES.
Nice Irish Lady: Ooh lovely dear, I'll hold them down.
I didn't in the end, because the train got into Reading and the whole sorry process had to begin again. Sorry, rubbish ending.
* I could have said 'yeah yeah, I got a lift home in my mate cello's chauffeur-driven car Thursday, you ain't all that, buster', but I only just thought of it.
I left the Patrocloflat at eleven this morning. Got to mine at eight.