A comment from yesterday reminds me of one time when I was away with some people from work. We caught the train from London to Brighton for two days and a night of strategic planning. Joy.
The train was brand new and the doors made a noise like those on Star Trek when they opened. And yet over the quiet hum of the moving train, I could make out a faint buzzing sound. Coming from my little suitcase in the luggage tray above our seat of four. A colleague, Natasha (dour woman in her mid-late 40s; one distinctive strand of facial hair; complete sense of humour failure) was sitting directly across from me. We acknowledged the situation with a look.
During the journey our other (both male) travelling companions, became aware of the sound. One was a middle aged gentleman, who read The Times the whole way. At one point he looked up from his paper and glanced pointedly at me over his glasses. He shook his paper without speaking, and returned to the much less risky route of contemplating to himself, the possible cause of the noise. The younger man, the one sitting next to me, asked us every 10 minutes if anyone could hear something.
After 76 years, we reached Brighton Station. Myself and Natasha grabbed our cases and headed to the bathroom. I hurried through the door, mortified, and jammed myself into a stall. Moments later I burst out laughing. It was my electric toothbrush. Everything else was packed safely away.
As I came out of the door, I heard scary-hairy Nastasha zipping up her case in the other loo.
Comments
hairy girls need lovin too :)
yes my lovely hirsute one, they do. still, it doesn’t bare thinking about what was in her case!