The day had been a long one. The uppity Sales Director had sought to ambush me at the Monthly Review. Thankfully, the large order for flannels from Poundworld the previous day had led me to exceed my orders target and had spiked her MBA sharpened guns.
I looked forward to getting home, putting on my new pair of corduroys and cracking open a can of cider.
I gave a silent prayer of thanks to the flannel. Like the wheel, cup and shovel, it is immune to technological advance. Of course, the firm was in a tizzy over the introduction of disposable wipes, but flannels have stood the test of time. The average person in Western Europe has six flannels. That adds up to nearly two billion. An impressive number.
As my old boss Melvin told me on my first day, “Men and woman will always have nooks and crannies to clean.” He was a wise man. Such a shame about the chainsaw.
The Buddhist monk sitting next to me was a very pleasant chap. Not what you would expect of a Buddhist monk, being heavyset, fair skinned and speaking in a broad Mancunian accent. His robes clad him spectacularly.
We spoke briefly.
“I’m still a heavy rock man, proper Fookin’ Rock n Roll,” he said. He continued to prattle as I drifted off into the land of nod.
I dreamed of a being in a Kung Fu fight with Roger Moore’s James Bond. I always thought Timothy Dalton deserved more outings as 007, but there you go.
Moore was holding a large black pudding in a menacing manner. He was about to aim a kick towards my nether regions when I awoke with a sharp pain in my right foot. I had kicked the back of the seat in front of me in a bold defensive blocking manoeuvre.
“Ow!” I cried. The pain was sharp. Intense. Avoidable.
“Oooooohhhhhhmmmmmm,” My Buddhist neighbour uttered in a low, guttural tone. His eyes were closed. He was in the Lotus position. His large left knee touched my thigh. It was a remarkable joint.
“Oooooohhhhhhmmmmmm.”
Several passengers, looked up from their spreadsheets, like a colony of commuting Meerkats to locate these primal, nasal Mancunian urgings.
“OOOOOOOOOHHHHHMMMMM!” He repeated, more forcefully. He levitated a full two inches above the seat, softly breaking wind as he did so. All that effort I suppose.
I stared in awe as he descended several seconds later, unfolded his legs and then smiled at me and said,
“If you ask me, AC/DC were never the same after Bon Scott died, even if Back in Black is a great album.”
Flabbergasted, I nodded my assent and clutched a sample bag of flannels to my side.
“Tickets from Stonehouse please,” said the Guard.
The Buddhist was put off for fare evasion.
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