That Whitsun, I got away early, catching the 9.27 train. Not early enough to avoid the usual Bank Holiday passenger list; frowsy Mums in floral frocks, Dads bereft without the toad work, squalling kiddies demented having been promised freedom and delivered confinement. Thank Christ, I’d brought a book. Damn Christ; it was an Iris Murdoch. Smiled thinly at, in lieu of murdering, a kiddie who spilt cloudy lemonade on my trousers. Then, a spry old character – I mean bore - sat opposite and asked ‘D’you think we’ll see any weddings this early?’
‘Weddings?’ I said. ‘On a train?’
‘Wedding parties, rather. Sending off the brides and grooms on honeymoon. Afternoons you tend to see them; proud parents, drunk Uncles and the like.’
I’d sooner parties of schoolgirls, but didn’t say so. ‘No.’ is what I actually said.
‘The confetti, the ribald joshing – well, you can imagine.’
Eventually. extraordinarily, I could.
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Threaded Mode
