The trains to Bristol is jam packed. I am perched on one of those pop up seats nominally for disabled folks but in fact designed for anorexic eight year olds. I am surrounded by folks standing in the aisles and with luggage all around me. Some bitch with a baby has just got on, forcing her way through. Can you move please as I have a baby? She demanded of me. She is a bitch who is used to getting her way.
Some chap gave her a seat and perched his charming little daughter on his knee. But the bitch persisted. This space (i.e. where I am sitting) is for wheelchairs and buggies she insisted. Actually the sign says it is for wheelchairs, there is no mention of buggies. But heck the bitch has a baby so let’s not bother with the finer details.
I say that I will move some other folk’s luggage. “I don’t want you doing that she insisted – I want YOU to move”. So I must give up my seat for her fucking buggy (empty). I refused. After a 120 hour week I am confident that I feel more tired that her fucking top of the range fucking buggy.
I move some folk’s luggage and am now crammed in surrounded by a top of the range fucking buggy and everyone’s luggage. The bitch with a baby persisted: “I have a baby I take priority.” Hang on love you now have a proper seat I am perched on half of a seat designed for anorexic eight year olds.
Of course what she is saying is that her fucking top of the range buggy takes priority over a human being? Does it have a ticket? No. Do I have one? Yes.
I protest “I have just worked a 120 hour week, don’t I have some rights.” She insisted that she worked harder than me. Presumably as a full time yummy mummy with a top of the range fucking buggy who gets to act like a total bitch because she has a baby.
The bitch now has a seat. To stop her brat screaming she is shaking a noisy rattle. Her top of the range fucking buggy is parked in comfort. I am on a half a seat designed for an anorexic eight year old and the now for the really good news. This bitch and her husband sold their flat in London and bought a great big house in Bristol – as half the carriage now knows. So I have the pleasure of the “in the money” bitch with a baby and her top of the range fucking buggy all the way to Bristol.
Bah humbug and Merry Christmas to one and all.
Postscript: Oh God help me, the Bitch is now loudly singing Old MacDonald to her brat. We are not even at Reading yet. Now she is shaking the rattle again. Now she is singing Jingle bells. I could scream. This is rapidly becoming the journey from hell