“You’re going to Leitrim?”
“Yes”, replies the other lady.
“Why would you go there?”
“Because it’s beautiful. Why wouldn’t I go there?”
“Because it’s really dangerous.”
“Huh?”
“Eh…It’s called ‘Stab City’!!!”
“That’s Limerick, you Muppet!”
“Oh…”
“How’s work?”
“Meh.”
“Why?”
“I deal with unhappy people *all* day long.”
“So?”
“Crying. Screaming at me. Telling me all their problems. Threatening me. One even called me a ‘stupid bitch’ today.”
“But that must be rewarding in so many ways.”
“Huh?”
“I mean, don’t you feel good helping people?”
“Eh…what exactly do you think I do?”
“You’re a counselor or something?”
“Hell, no. I work in Customer Care.”
The man beside me has bugs. The man opposite him has bugs. They are coughing in unison. The lady behind me is filling in the gaps with repetitive sneezing. It’s times like this I wish I was wrapped in cling film or, at the very least, wearing a discrete dollop of Eau de Milton.
“Ever visit a place because of a book you read?”
“Yeah.”
“Where d’ya go?”
“Copenhagen. And it was as beautiful as I imagined it would be.”
“Oooooh! What book led you there?”
“The Diary of Anne Frank.”
“Big case coming up.”
“What’s it about?”
“Can’t say. But what I will say is this – up to my *moobs* in prep work.”
<Beavis and Butthead guffaws>
“Where is it?”
“Reckon it’s the High Court. Not sure if we’re before a judge or judges.”
“When will you know?”
“On the day probably. Leads to a question though.”
“What question?”
“What’s the plural of judge? Judge or judges?”
<Say ‘No. I think you’ll find the plural of “judge” is Jedi’ I scream inside my head. Jedi. Jedi. Jedi!!!>
“Think it’s ‘judge’.”
<Oh, sweet Lord…!>
Breaking the silence on tonight’s commute…
“Jaysus!” she shrieked after looking at her phone.
“What’s wrong?”
“Text from the ex.”
“What did he say?”
“Read it.”
“F**k – you – and – your – belly. F**k – you – and – your – belly – of – bellies!”
“What the hell did you say to him?”
“Here. Read it.”
“Are – you – getting – the – kids – runners – for – Christmas?”
“Is that Michael over there?”
“Where?”
“Over there beside the tree?”
“I don’t know.”
“Haven’t seen him in an age. I wonder if it’s him.”
“You’ll have to go over and see.”
“Why?”
“Neither of you are wearing your glasses so you’ll never be able to recognise him from here.”
“Huh?”
“Coming to town on Saturday?”
“Nope.”
“Huh? I’m driving in. Come with us.”
“No babysitter.”
“I thought you’d a gang of them to choose from.”
“Oh, we had. And now we have none.”
“How did that happen?”
“The ‘Animal Whisperer’ saw each and every one of them off.”
“Huh?”
“We didn’t know what was going on. The missus pays them well. Often leaves them dinner even. They all seemed fine and then I’d phone and they were busy. When it got to the last one, I wasn’t letting it go. Had to know why.”
“So why?”
“Poor girl stuttered out her reason. I think she thought I’d be angry with her. I was angry but not with her. With my darling 3 year old.”
“And???”
“No sooner would we be out the door than herself would throw a fit and become totally catastrophic.”
“Ah, the poor pet!”
“Poor pet, me arse. She had them looking for her pet lizard. Inside and outside.”
“Why did the lizard keep going missing?”
“There is NO lizard!”
“Huh?”
“She got to stay up late and the babysitter was in such a tiss when she couldn’t find the lizard. Afraid to come back and find out what happened to it.”
“So what now?”
“Stern words to herself and a lot of nights in for the foreseeable.”
I can put on my make-up – including liquid eyeliner *and* mascara – on a fast-moving, violently rocking, train but if I try to put on my coat, I flap around like an octopus on steroids, hitting every other commuter in the vicinity…
“You’re so lucky not to wear a uniform.”
“I know!”
“I hate this uniform.”
“When you come home from school, do you change?”
“Yeah.”
“What do you change into?”
“Depends.”
“Depends on what?”
“My mother.”
“Why?”
“If she’s made soup, I change into my onesie.”
“Oh!”
“If she’s made me a sandwich, I change into pyjamas.”
“Oh…”
Thoughts of a Middle Aged Teen 