Training Bra

Now I’m not an expert in these things.  Don’t get me wrong I have some experience but I don’t think my gentle dabbling would qualify me for any sort of superior status.  Maybe I’m just being modest.  Maybe, but I suspect not.  Of course it’s not through a lack of trying rather through a lack of success.  And that then depends on your criteria for ‘success’.  Oh, it’s all so very very complicated.  Sometimes I long for the olden days when a young man could amuse himself for weeks on end with nothing more than a catapult and greenhouse.

Still, I’m pretty sure what was going on.  I don’t think you’d necessarily need to be an expert.  Just observant.  Actually not even that observant.  Just present.  And conscious.  It’s another one of those occasions when people get really wrapped up in their own thoughts.  And deeds.  You know, so caught up that everything around them disappears.  At least from their sight.  It’s one of the delights of a late train home.  That wildly myopic view of the world.  Almost always alcohol-induced.

Tonight’s carriage was largely empty.  Just me and two others.  But as far as they were concerned they were alone.  Although just for the record, I was there first.  Minding my own business, quietly slumped and trying to doze gently.  They joined me.  Perhaps they didn’t notice.  They were rather preoccupied. 

I’m fairly used to tittering and giggles.  Pretty much everywhere I go, I hear them behind me.  I’ve always thought what a remarkable coincidence it is that people seem to share the funniest jokes just as I go past.  Never quite caught one though.  But by the reaction, they are darn funny.  Anyway, drunken sniggering on late night public transport didn’t strike me as untoward.  Underwear dropping into the aisle, however, is a little more unusual. 

Being as sharp as a button, I recognised immediately that it was unlikely that this freshly discard bra was a rejected gift, like so many well-meant Christmas/ Birthday/ Valentine’s Day presents.  For one thing, it had acquired that comfortable limpness that only comes with time.  One couldn’t describe it as part of a Pulling Pants ensemble either, though it was nice enough as bras go.  Personally, I’ve always preferred simple underwear.  You know where you are with it, I think.  Besides I tend to snag lacy frills with my keys.  Suddenly the childhood education of leafing through the lingerie section of shopping catalogues came flooding back.

Still, Pulling Pants or no, this had turned into someone’s Lucky Night.  Thought clearly not mine.  I wasn’t sure whether to cough politely to prevent them from being embarrassed but there didn’t seem much point.  If there was a point they were quite a long way past it and accelerating.  And there’s nothing worse than some stranger drawing attention to a point when things are clearly moving on.  Instead I tried not to look.

Actually, I tried not to look reasonably successfully.  I couldn’t seem to draw my eyes away from the crumpled Marks and Sparks item on the floor but I did refrain from looking up.  That funny affair in an Oxford Public Convenience taught me never to investigate queer noises coming from out of sight.  And although this was my carriage, I felt that they did deserve a little privacy.

I don’t know how many times you’ve been attacked by wild dogs but believe me after the first couple of dozen times one picks up on a few signs of impending danger.  One is this: don’t be overly worried by barking.  Barking is a warning, a threat.  Barking is a signal of emotion not intent.  You’re only in peril when the barking stops. 

In my carriage, the barking stopped. 

I know that canine-themed activities are increasingly popular past times  in many of the Home Counties but this wasn’t going to be the night when I joined the dogging club.  For me the onset of silence was the loudest alarm I could have.  With furious haste, I abandoned my carriage.

In the remaining minutes of the journey I reflected on my own exotic experiences, behind the music block, in the cornfield, the back of the Morris Minor, in the office, the library, the cupboard of the fast food joint, the queue for Spurs tickets.  And realised there weren’t any.  Unless you can count a clumsy fumble on the 10.23 from Ben Rhydding, that is.

When I got off, a hand pressed against the window of the carriage but I’m not entirely sure they were waving at me.  One of them did tell a very funny joke though.  Apparently.

Comments

[Mrs RW]

I always thought you British were a rather reserved lot, but it appears that there's snogging going on everywhere over there!

Maybe it's you. Just the sight of you impassions everyone around you and they can't help themselves. They have to do it NOW!

Whatever it is, perhaps you should look into marketing that Chufty substance as the new aphrodisiac.

[Carlton]

It is entirely plausible, Mrs RW. I do seem to inflame situations almost effortlessly. Not quite sure it's always an aphrodisiac though. Or maybe that in my particular slice of life, the inhabitants don't feel the need for any kind of reserve?! c.

[Juno888]

Whatever it is, perhaps you should look into marketing that Chufty substance as the new aphrodisiac.

[Carlton]

I'm not sure another dangerous substance unleashed on the general public is necessarily a good idea, Juno! After all, look what it's done to Britney Spears!

c.