Cocoon III

Day three of the Olympics and the magic has truly begun: all of the
commuters have morphed into geriatrics and tourists. Geriatric
tourists, too. My carriage has attained Mothball Odour Factor 7 which,
even when seasonally adjusted, is unseasonally high. An expected MOF
at this time of summer would be 2-3.

The man opposite me is clearly a spy.


The man opposite me is filming me with his video camera.
This man is good. He pretends to clean his eye piece while focusing on me.
He affects a foreign accent as he speaks English to his 'children'.
He sports summer hiking boots and hides his ankle pistol with mundane
blue socks.
He has also donned a safari hat.
This man is good. Clearly he has been to London before.
Presumably when recceing his targets during the Jubilee.
This man is not good.
He is uploading the video of me to a foreign ministry, presumably
asking them to focus a spy satellite on me, as I sit here on a tube
outside Turnham Green.
Or am I? Can't be revealing my whereabouts that easily.
But what if the man opposite me has told the foreign ministry where I
am? The man opposite me knows where I am, surely?
This man is good.
But wait. 'He affects a foreign accent as he speaks English to his
'children'.' A ha!!! The man opposite me is pretending to be the
father of these two young 'boys' who are approximately the same age as
him.
The man opposite me has shown his hand.
The man opposite me's hand is not good.
The man opposite me is suffocating. MOF 7 has proven too much,
emanating from the two geriatourists I subtly launched upon him.
The man opposite me was good. But not that good.