Holy cow!

I met her voice before seeing the flowing pink cottage wallpaper of her dress. She boomed ‘hello’ to the poor lad who was to be her seat mate. He wriggled into the corner, giving her as much space as he could, but train seats are not designed for super-sized rumps.

Fortunately she decided to move up a row. The London to York train trip turned out to be barely long enough for her preening. Fingernails required emery shaping, hair was brushed over and over, and makeup went on, off, and on again. She did manage an exciting phone call; her contribution appeared to consist almost entirely of holy cows.

In between the preening she downed a sandwich, with ‘manners’ which would have seen our children leaving the table. But the coupe de gras came as the train pulled into York; she threw all her rubbish onto the seat in front of her.