Low class

I went up to London for my meeting (successful, ta), and met my lovely mate Biggles for lunch afterwards, which was an unexpected bonus.

We chatted, ate splendid fish and chips in a pub (jealous, American readers?) and then he very sweetly walked me back to Waterloo to get my train.

Had a fantastic view of the London Eye as we crossed the bridge, which sparked a discussion about other freakishly altered fairground rides you could put in a big city. Our favourite was the enormous, really slow Helter Skelter that takes an hour to slide down, then slo-o-owly bounces you across the river on a giant coconut mat.

Anyhoo. Got to the train, and asked the nice guard (who looked a lot like Lord Bath, oddly) if I could use the door he was stood by.

"Yes love, but it's First Class."

"I am First Class" I said, trying for a haughty and devil-may-care tone, but sadly coming across rather whiny and crap, waving my ticket at him.

"Well, in that case I'll let you in" he said.

When he checked my ticket later he made a jokey comment about how he could "just tell" I was First Class. And so the long afternoon wore on.

I plugged mysef into the iPod, and listened to 1980s heavy rock all the way to Salisbury, where you have to change trains. As I stepped off the train, the friendly guard was there again.

"Ooh" he said "Not sure First Class people paint their toenails bright red!"

"Only the sleazy ones" I replied, trying to decide whether I was pleased he'd noticed or affronted that he'd been looking. Tch. Girls, eh?


Not First Class toes, allegedly.