He wore sturdy brogues and thick woollen socks. Nothing else.
On the table in front of him he had placed a goldfish bowl. A carp gazed at me with malevolence. It bore an uncanny resemblance to Elvis in The King’s final days.
Anger management issues I thought to myself.
“Crisp?” The Rambler proffered a packet of Smokey Bacon in a friendly manner. I politely declined. Best not to talk to him. I stared out of the window. We passed through a tunnel and his fleshy reflection loomed large in the pane. Crisp crumbs fell from his mouth, some of which landed into his pubic region. He picked a number of the larger pieces out and popped them into his mouth.
“Turning nippy isn’t it?” he asked in his avuncular manner. The fish continued to stare.
The train came out of the tunnel and the guard announced that we were approaching Kemble Station.
“My Stop!” beamed The Rambler. He stood up, wiped the remaining crumbs away and reached up to the luggage rack to retrieve his luggage. A wind weathered scrotum dangled limply two inches from my eyes.
“Come on Lester, our stop!” The Rambler said as he picked up the goldfish bowl. He smiled at me as he walked toward the door. I noticed the imprint of the seat lining on his buttocks. The left cheek would benefit from a good quality emollient cream.
I put down my chicken salsa wrap, my appetite somewhat abated.
I doubt if Celia Johnson had experienced this in Brief Encounter.
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