Kiss kiss

Seen on the train window this morning, on the inside of the glass - a kiss mark. The lipstick remains of the lips (I assume a woman's but you never know), the ghost of a kiss in what looked like sunset peach but could, if the colour had faded, been anything from post-box red to harlot violet.

Obviously the normal response to this is to imagine somebody gesturing their goodbuy to a loved one on the platform, make sure you don't rub up against it, and move on. Or, if you're of that bent, I suppose you could smooch it yourself and so get a smacker by proxy. This does mean licking the window, the inside mind, of a railway carriage, never a good idea unless you collect samples for Portland Down. Doubtless if you're the kind of person who habitually licks the windows of public transport, you're probably immune to everything but bird flu and ASBOs. Or maybe it's simply that your loved one used to visit you in prison and you miss the whole 'pressing-the-body-part-against-the-glass' thing.

It's a very female thing to do, kiss a window. If ever you see an arse-print up against a window pane, you'll know that a bloke has just said an emotional farewell to his best mate. Brings a tear to the eye, especially if you're sitting next to the guy at the time.