» The Worst Journey in the World

Tramp tales
Somewhere in my brain I have developed an unbreakable association between trains and half-term seaside jaunts. Thus, even if the reason I'm on the train is because I'm commuting, it still feels like I'm on the way to Margate and I have the according sunny disposition, and natter merrily to my fellow passengers.

One day (a commuting one, not an actual seaside one) a tramp sat next to me on the train. Not a "homeless person", a proper tramp, complete with stubble, stained newspaper-filled pants and the unmistakable eau de toilette. I've always tried not to judge books by their covers; how rude it would be to relocate just because of a bit of a smell of urine, so I stayed put. He grunted and belched White Lightning fumes at me, I talked back to him; all was well.

Until the ticket collector came. I perkily flashed my season ticket in its little plastic holder; the tramp belched and pointed in my direction.

"She's got mine"

"Oh gosh, no sir, you must be mistaken!" I trilled. The tramp got angrier and started to flail drunkenly about, grabbing at my bag, waving his fists at the ticket man and all the time insisting I definitely had his ticket. I got more and more distressed in my pathetic girly way, and the ticket collector tried to calm the tramp and explain that, just this time, he was more inclined to believe the overly-polite office lady rather than the Special-Brew-scented hobo. (Which no doubt is the sort of prejudice these people have to face every day).

In the end the ticket collector fetched some nice bloke he knew that happened to be on the train and I hid in another carriage with him whilst the ticket guy dealt with enraged tramp. This experience taught me two things:
1) I'm crap in a crisis, even an extremely minor one and
2) If a book's cover is soaked in piss and Special Brew, sometimes it's OK to judge it
(Wed 13th Sep 2006, 15:17, More)