An almighty morning commute
It sometimes seems as though my world has shrunk to sleeping, gymming (or not), travelling by train, work and telly. This is not the stuff of great correspondence but occasionally things from the pick list above yield a moment of interest…for me anyway.
Boarding the carriage the other day on the ‘late’ train in my usually way, breathless and flustered after the 100 yard dash to catch the train, running like a tubby bitch with coat-tails flapping, I slumped down opposite a bloke in a hoodie.
I instantly made the normal assumptions, but didn’t have time to really get rolling on my prejudices because he left at the next station. He had gone - but lying on the table were two wee booklets he had, I think, left - titled ‘knowing God personally’.
I wondered if he had left them? I wondered if this was his style of spreading the word? I then wondered if those joining the train were going to think they were mine!
Best case scenario (the one that happened) is that everyone ignores them. Middle case is that somebody starts reading them and worst case is that somebody assumes they are mine, assumes that I am the sort of happy-clapper with a tambourine up my arse and a bible in each pocket that actually wants a conversation about mysticism before work and starts banging on about their conversion, church and personal view of God.
I was spared all this but did wonder, for a few moments, about the tremendous arrogance of anyone who titles a booklet ‘knowing God personally’. Does knowing God personally mean you can borrow a tenner off him until payday? Or lend him your lawnmower? The benefit would be that he makes for a really excellent job reference.
Unless, of course, whoever left them actually does know God personally. Note to self, keep eye out for commuters with black overcoats hiding wings.
One thing I left off of the list of activities is my gamecube. This is because there is not much to tell anyone about trying to beat level three of ‘Everything or nothing’ apart from it being very satisfying when you eventually do so - and that trying to rise after sitting cross legged in front of the telly for three hours is quite an interesting experience, as one shuffles around the place like an old crooked man alternately cursing, rubbing and hitting your legs as blood flows back into them and you get more pins and needles than a smack-head visiting his tailor.
Boarding the carriage the other day on the ‘late’ train in my usually way, breathless and flustered after the 100 yard dash to catch the train, running like a tubby bitch with coat-tails flapping, I slumped down opposite a bloke in a hoodie.
I instantly made the normal assumptions, but didn’t have time to really get rolling on my prejudices because he left at the next station. He had gone - but lying on the table were two wee booklets he had, I think, left - titled ‘knowing God personally’.
I wondered if he had left them? I wondered if this was his style of spreading the word? I then wondered if those joining the train were going to think they were mine!
Best case scenario (the one that happened) is that everyone ignores them. Middle case is that somebody starts reading them and worst case is that somebody assumes they are mine, assumes that I am the sort of happy-clapper with a tambourine up my arse and a bible in each pocket that actually wants a conversation about mysticism before work and starts banging on about their conversion, church and personal view of God.
I was spared all this but did wonder, for a few moments, about the tremendous arrogance of anyone who titles a booklet ‘knowing God personally’. Does knowing God personally mean you can borrow a tenner off him until payday? Or lend him your lawnmower? The benefit would be that he makes for a really excellent job reference.
Unless, of course, whoever left them actually does know God personally. Note to self, keep eye out for commuters with black overcoats hiding wings.
One thing I left off of the list of activities is my gamecube. This is because there is not much to tell anyone about trying to beat level three of ‘Everything or nothing’ apart from it being very satisfying when you eventually do so - and that trying to rise after sitting cross legged in front of the telly for three hours is quite an interesting experience, as one shuffles around the place like an old crooked man alternately cursing, rubbing and hitting your legs as blood flows back into them and you get more pins and needles than a smack-head visiting his tailor.
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