My tolerance levels were already below zero so just how am I coping? Well I'm listening to a LOT of good music which is somehow keeping me sane. I panic when I'm not plugged in. It's a sort of life support, or drip if you will. The dulcet tones of Laura Marling, Robert Plant and Alt J are stopping me from beating someone to death with my Oyster card. I reckon I could if I really tried you know.
So today isn't really an angry blog per Se I'm surprisingly calm and I even have a train chomper right next to me. Now everyone knows I have no patience for train chompers, like none. I had the same conversation with a guy at work who agrees that crisps should be banned on trains. Hear, hear! I'd happily fuck someone up who was devouring a packet of wotsits. Especially the bastards who lick their fingers after.
So the chomper I have next to me is a moderately attractive suit. He pulls a paper bag out from his man bag. Yes, man bags are socially acceptable. I can see a window of grease soaking through the paper and my stomach turns and growls at the same time. I haven't eaten yet as I find my ridiculous and frantic morning routine of trying to apply a precision red lip far too stressful. That and trying to tease hair in various locations on my body to avoid being mistaken for a teen wolf fancy dress entrant.
I watch with rapture as the suit slowly, ever so slowly, peels back the paper to reveal a ginormous bap. There's meat on it, I can smell it. This is unfamiliar to me as a vegetarian. I can already hear people tutting and asking "why?" I'm a vegetarian, it's okay. I still have two arms and two legs, I still have a heartbeat and manage to function and I get PLENTY protein. I was once told that eating vegetarian haggis was like eating fruit bacon. That did actually make me laugh and was a usual change from "I just don't get it"
Anyway, I digress. The paper on the bag has been peeled back, revealing the large floury bap. I can see its soaked with grease around the edge and I lick my lip. Please don't let it be sausage. There's only one kind of sausage I like and it ain't Walls. It's bacon. Holy mother fucker, it's bacon.
I smell it now. I can practically taste it and my mouth quivers as I suck back in a bit of drool. Greasy, crispy, juicy bacony goodness. It wafts up my nose, swirls around inside and blood rushes to my face like it does when I'm embarrassed or fancy someone. Holy shit, I've got a bacon lard-on. Dear me, I'm damp.
I don't eat meat, except man meat, but god damn it I miss bacon. It's the only thing that could turn me back to eating animal corpses. He's definitely eating it in slow motion to turn me on. Can he smell my pheromones or something? Do I smell like I want to reproduce because porn is happening right here on the 08:49 from Euston. I slink down into my seat to try and hide my flushed face, and I bite my lip as I've come over all Ms Steele. Yes I've read fifty shades, on the train. Perhaps that why I haven't blogged in a while. I almost say "hey mr piggy man, fancy some eggs to go with that bacon?"
Each lift to and from his mouth is heaven and hell. The bap drips hot butter and I flinch as I watch it splash up in slow motion. I'm holding my breath and will him to lose a bit of bacon so I can swipe it, no such luck. Bacon is pure sex. I think I'm coming out in rashers.
He polishes off the roll and my shoulders drop in dismay. I'm disappointed. I feel like we shared a moment. I would have married this man for a bite of his pork. I feel rejected, he didn't even offer me a lick of his fingers after or a sniff of the wrapper.
It's my stop next, I want to hang around to inhale his beard and inspect for remnants. I have to ask him to move so I can get out and I come over all ham fisted trying to lift my bag and newspaper.
I make a mental note to go out and buy some veggie percy pigs and evaluate life as a vegetarian. Alas Mr Piggy man, until the next time.
I could do with a good porking.
A. Passenger
Fuckin lolzzzzz!!!
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