The best thing about public transport, from the point of view of a writer, is that it puts you in close proximity to the public and gives you the opportunity to read The Guardian. I am a natural Guardian reader, and I heartily approve of the publication, but I only read it on trains. If it goes under or gets sold to Amazon, I only have myself to blame.
I couldn't start writing earlier because I was listening, open-mouthed, to a woman whom, I would surmise, never reads the Guardian, as she recounted with peppery language and a lot of feeling, the break-up with her live- in.
"I told 'im I'm off till he gets his (mild korma) act together, the (red-hot chilli peppering) idiot."
I expect the frosty distancing of love-grown- old ( and past it's use- by date) in a palace, has it's fascination, but the full- bloodied soap- opera that this lady's life has become, is far more interesting. She didn't so much air her dirty linen in public, as send it to the cleaners with a 'wear me' label attached to it.
Talking of soap- operas, I began my sally into Guardian'sville with a glance at the cultural section. I am a Philistine, and admit to no shame about it. I get my culture from following @willshagspeare on Twitter, and I tell you, you could do worse. Contemporary culture is an alien land on another planet: I do not comment on it, however, firstly because I'm too ignorant to do so, and secondly, because I made a solemn promise, fifty years ago, not to turn into my mother.
I turned the pages in fascination, mind-blown by the cover photo of young woman in black and purple, on a motorbike, with a cape and mask, whose name I was too over- stimulated to notice: I can't tell you who she was, because I left her behind in the waiting room.
I was SO relieved, if somewhat surprised, a few pages later, to find a review of 'Coronation Street' and I fell on it with glee. 'Corrie' as we sometime and fickle fans call it, is a popular drama peopled by strange northern folk with highly alternative lifestyles, and unenviable fates. I put this in for the benefit of my Russian readership (128 pageviews last month, thank you) who may be out of the loop on British soaps.
As half the male cast is off-air strenuously denying allegations of sexual misconduct, the writers appear to have to be making do with the "River Island Caligula,"who, "Isn't the smartest bread-stick in the basket," David Platt.
(You would 't get THAT quality of metaphor in The Sun! )
I have followed David's sociopathic career with interest. I approve of all his loathsome schemes in the hope that one day he will murder his God-awful mother, Gail. It can only be a matter of time. The entire nation will petition the production company for clemency on the grounds of, 'justifiable homicide' .
It doesn't matter what he's up to. 'No good' covers it.
Good Lord! Bristol Temple Meads station already. Excuse me, I have to alight.
The reason why I deposited £7.40 into the pockets of First Great Western in return for a ticket to Bristol, was a consequence of the upcoming nuptials of my youngest daughter. She, me, future mother-in-law and future sister-in-law, headed for a high class frock shop in Clifton for the purpose of H trying on a variety of wedding gowns, and an expensive range of accessories, some sparkling with diamanté and others frothy with lace. All costing a great deal more than the £5 I paid for the multicoloured paisley patterned minidress, that I bought,'off the peg' from Marks and Spencer's back in 1971.
The consulting room was like a courtesan's boudoir, with huge gilt-edged mirrors, stripey chaise-longue and plum-coloured loopy curtains. I was impressed. When my daughter emerged from behind the plum-coloured loopy curtains, in dresses 1,3, 4 and 7, I was overcome with emotion and moved to tears. Numbers 2, 5 and 6 proving not quite so tear-jerking.
No decision was made. Further outings are planned for Newport, and Birmingham, where, I am told, the Wedding Fair (Entrance By Ticket Only) is a cross between a three-ring circus and a rugby scrum.
I am home now, and waiting for the delivery of a glass of red wine and a bowl to soak my feet in. Wedding shopping is an arduous and exacting pastime. I have a lot coming to me. You may expect a blow-by-blow account - especially if the dash for bargains in Birminham proves to be as militant as my informants tell me it is... .