Pubic Transport

As is usual when I visit the side of the Atlantic rife with decay, apathy and long forgotten aspirations, I have spent most of my time on public transport. If not visiting tiny psychopaths or the architects of my birth, I've been responding to social summons and attending exhibitions of syphilitic genitalia in London. It will be exquisite relief to escape this vacation (holiday for the less Free) and go back to looking at girls' legs from the comfort of air conditioned offices.

Sharing transport with other, putative, members of the species is always an edifying experience. It affords a fascinating glimpse into their lives, often at volume levels that are detrimental to the human eardrum, and a less fascinating glimpse into my increasingly panic stricken mind.

Trains in Italy are well nice they are, and feature things like comfortable seats, high speeds, punctuality, leathery old men and fantastic views (often through the windows). Sadly not all of the other passengers are given to quiet contemplation or speech that doesn't involve shouting (many users of Italian trains are Italian). On one journey I found a group of excited young men particularly irksome, and though I couldn't understand what they were saying, I doubt it was as funny as they seemed to find it. The other passengers weren't especially amused either.

Glancing through my window I noticed we were making a speedy and precipitous transit along a cliff top above the gleaming blue sea. We were high enough not to even be able to see the olive skinned riffraff miring the beach. Looking to the opposite side of the carriage I could see an old man drowning in sweat while struggling to open his window. Using a complex system of gestures and silly grins I indicated that I would be willing to open mine instead. Gasping from his latest struggle, he assented and just as we veered particularly close to the edge I managed to jerk the window open with a great crash. The boys shut up instantly, excepting the one who screamed.

Trains in the Royal Gizzard of Berkdom are not so pleasant, but are reassuringly expensive just like bad lager. However they benefit immensely from being full of English speakers. I am now privy to just how amazing Take That's comeback concerts were and festival gossip from some fragrantly soiled teenagers. Hopefully their parents hosed them down before letting them back in the house. The noncommittal grunts of a husband in response to his snooty wife's long winded and unsurprisingly pretentious dissection of the ballet are something I'm aiming to emulate in later life.

Planes, I don't like much. Every time I get on one I am convinced I am going to die, and so my continued use of flying machines is either demented or courageous.

Any sudden vertical motion whatsoever, such as that caused by turbulence, or a sharp kick to the rectum through my seat, kindly provided by the passenger behind me, causes me to try and pull the armrests off.

My most enjoyable journey recently was on a coach, when the attractive blonde sitting next to me fell asleep on my shoulder, fulfilling my female contact quota for at least the next decade.