Sandwiches Corner

So Slipknot were wrong after all. Particularly about the cd-buying ones who paid for their solid gold mansions, faberge egg collections and (probably) chocolate golf courses.

In the space of a single week, two events occurred in which those involved had no personal gain to be made form helping me out but did so nonetheless - all the more astonishing when you consider my general demeanour is even often of somebody who’d sooner slice their tongue out with a rusty breadknife than make pleasant how d’ya do’s with random strangers..

First, a very helpful train inspector, upon enduring me bemoaning the impossilibility of getting to a ticket booth to acquire a Photocard (necessary to purchase the more economical travelcard for my 6 trains a day - yes, 6 - journey to and from capitalist wage slavery etc etc) due to the fact that, in a rare instance of rail serendipity, every train service on my journey connects within microseconds of each other, arranged for the person on shift the next morning to identify me (presumably by my charming aura of misery and despair), and provide the necessary sticky bits, numbers etc. so that I might get the bit of card required and thus save me about £100 a month.

She didn’t need to bother, especially as I was moody with it when I asked why she couldn’t just give me cheap ticket, and I felt like a real dick the next day when her similarly helpful colleague told me she’d made the effort to help me out. Truly, I am sometimes an arsehole.

In Tesco, admittedly a venue guaranteed to coax the curmudgeon out of even the sunniest demeanour, a middle-aged tourist couple on holiday shouted at me for maybe 5 minutes at the checkout before my natural reflex to just ignore anyone trying to talk to me in public buckled, and I learnt they were were merely trying to offer me their ‘Clubcard’ points gained from their copious amounts of holiday shopping, as they wouldn’t be able to use them back home.

So, to Ted and Mavis from Sunderland and all other such generous souls, I say ‘Cheers!’, as I down the first of my Clubcard-funded bottles of Tesco own brand vodka on my many trains to work.

(Note to self - Be nice to random stranger tomorrow. Expect apprehension, bewilderment, possible screaming for help).