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Waiting for the Train

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I was sitting alone in Pearse Station waiting for a train one morning. I was twenty minutes early and it was fifteen minutes late. Trains generally are. They use, as far as I can make out, the same scheduling system as women. Which is why I wasn't too bothered - I've learned to make allowances. I knew, you see, that the poor thing was probably torturing itself with perfectly sensible worries about its appearance and odour and had to take time at each crossing to ask cars if its new paintjob made its rear carriage look big. Besides, it didn't really matter, because a few minutes later another train trundled in to distract me. It was extraordinarily crowded seeing as it was a work day, I felt for these poor bastards seeing as I was on holidays. The carriage looked like it had been vacuum-packed. I had only seen crowding like it before when loading cattle for the factory into Mr Robinson's lorry, and even then Mr Robinson had to use a cattle prod and reams of foul language. I assume these people voluntarily boarded and chose to be squashed, unless Mr Robinson has recently taken a position as "Capacity Planner" with West Wales Trains. ...read more.


Actually I blushed a little. What am I talking about - so much blood rushed to my face that it became an erection. Then the usual happened. In situations like this, where it's clear that embarrassment is inevitable, my composure deserts me. It sizes up the situation and decides it's better off on the other side. "You're on your own mate" are its parting words and, if I listen carefully, I can sometimes hear it mutter "loser." So in its absence, my body went haywire. I started to sweat. I went through a series of hot and cold flushes. My face began to twitch like a worm during orgasm and my pupils dilated like a hedgehog's in headlights. None of this helped to divert attention. So I tried to talk myself into believing nobody was looking. It's a trick mammy taught me when the big boys in school laughed at my 'faded salmon' t-shirt or my brown cardigan. But then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw a guy wipe the window with his sleeve and point at me. Goddammit, mammy's "trick" didn't work back then and it doesn't work now. ...read more.


Then my train arrived and I jumped on-board. I took a seat by a window. It was directly in line with the seat on the platform at which I'd been. There was nobody to see me, so I began pointing and staring at some pretend sad fool sitting there and staring at chewing gum. Then a guy sat on the bench. He couldn't settle for some reason, and started to shuffle to exactly where I'd been. I guess I'd left a warm patch. Bums are very good at detecting warmth like that, "Thermotropism" I think it's called. Our science teacher was prompted to lecture us on it after Matthew Jones, who'd been out the night before and came to the lab to sleep, lost his eyebrows in an entanglement with a Bunsen burner. Anyway, as soon as this guy settled I saw what had been so interesting to the people on the train. On a poster behind him was a sign bearing the station name. But his shoulder obscured part of it. Suddenly it all became clear. The train people hadn't been unnecessarily curious - I would have done the same in their position. And then I asked myself: "Should I tell him ?" "Nah, shag it!" I answered. "Let him sit there in Arse Station". ...read more.

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