Tetley Flea Bag

The woman next to me has no face. She has a book so presumably she has a face. She does not appear to be reading Braille.

The woman next to me has an elbow. Perhaps two. The woman next to me

Home time

The man opposite me is silent. Pensive.

The man opposite me wears clothes chosen by his wife. He is not image-conscious, nor do I think he is persecuting me; not this man opposite me.

The man opposite me is no international hit man, no man of mystery. His socks are standard-issue black, far from mundane blue. There is no suspicious bulge at his ankle nor in his jeans; I have no reason to suspect he is concealing a massive Glock.

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 Great Escape

The man opposite me is an international hit man.

There is no obvious sign to indicate that he has plied his trade across global boundaries. No tan. No evident passport. No sombrero or wicker donkey.

The man opposite me is a national hit man.

Drunk Tank

Took the train to town today. Nothing massively unusual in that. I was merrily listening away to podcast after podcast, new recruit that I am to this whole podcasting thing, about 19 years after everyone else.

Took the train to town today and was listening away to a Friday Night Comedy, downloaded from Radio 4 because I am very well-to-do and that's the sort of radio station us well-to-do people listen to. My podcasting days are still very much in their infancy and are restricted to the output of the BBC. I am yet to stray to other podcasting sites as I am fearful of venturing to iTunes and catching iItis; a common disease of which the incurable symptoms appear to manifest themselves in the form of pods, phones, macs and pads.

I've dabbled, don't get me wrong. Leave an iPhone on the table in front of me and I'll be pinching and

It's Not

I am sitting on a tube next to David Dickinson. It is in all
likelihood not David Dickinson. Is David Dickinson the orange one in
one of those Antiques Roadshow rip-offs where they not only value the
tat but flog it too?
I am sitting next to not David Dickinson. He is wearing a wide
pin-stripe. He is orange. Probably not as orange as David Dickinson
but not David Dickinson can be proud of his citrus fakeness.

Not David Dickinson is writing an email. To Bruce. Not David Dickinson
is being a little playful. Not David Dickinson does not let me see any
more of the screen. This is not an exam, not David Dickinson.
Therefore I can only surmise that Bruce is not David Dickinson's son,
not Bruce Dickinson, not lead singer of not AC/DC. Hang on. Is it not
not AC/DC who not Bruce Dickinson does not lead sing for? I think I am
mixing him up with someone else.

Not Bruce Dickinson's surname is not Dickinson. I can see not David
Dickinson's screen now. Not (now not) Bruce Dickinson's surname is
Bishop. Not Dickinson. They work together.

Had not David Dickinson been not Bruce Dickinson's father then this
would have been eye-brow raising. They are of much the same age. It
would have been my duty - and yours, now that I have made you aware of
this - to report the strange paternity situation to the CPA. I'm not
sure if the CPA is the correct authority but they'd be able to pass
you on to the correct acronym. But they're not. So you don't.

Not David Dickinson has just been sat upon by a rumbustuos lady.

Thus ends my tube journey.