The Tut

The world is rather lovely tonight. There is something funny about being on a train of sober people and one stoned Rasta. Sydenham Station, the doors opened and, blow me down, the platform was near on a metre from my feet with a gap into an abyss of oily rails below. I didn't know which foot to put out first, or whether to jump with both. Either way, neither was wanting to move. "Bloody hell, that's a long way down," and the girl beside me agreed with giggling relief that I'd voiced it first as we then clutched one another, heeled and wined perhaps as much as each other...

Tuts from behind! Tuts! It was from the man who leapt the gap like a mountain goat and who wore Bart Simpson socks. Yes, he tutted at our ridiculous girlie inability to dismount from the train. His socked exasperation was extremely funny. My new train companion found it equally amusing and we were met in some strange moment of stupid understanding of how it can feel to be a little helpless at times, amid a context of expert train dismounters or what have you.

The Rasta was laughing. He was laughing all the way home though. I wonder if he ever gets off the train.