Conversation

He's almost shouting down the phone. He's been insulted, he cries. The stupid little bitch, he'll let her know who's who. He would have told her there and then. He felt like knocking her block off. His words are almost incoherent, but perhaps it's because I don't understand the patois very well. I try to concentrate on my book, and wish I'd brought my mp3 player. Over the aisle from him, a young woman has buds in her ears, stares out the window. He twists in his seat, gesticulating at the phone. Finally, with a last imprecation, he rings off, and slumps back in his seat. After a moment, he looks over at the young woman, and notices that she is quite pretty. He preens a little, and leans over towards her, says something. She turns from the window and replies, monosyllabic. Then she stiffly gazes out of the window again. He glares at her, huddles in his seat, and pulls out his telephone, staring at the screen. At the next station, they both leave the train.

Splat

The train's late. Leaning against the railing that runs round three sides of the entrance to the platform are three young men, two wearing baseball caps, the third bareheaded. About once a minute, the bareheaded one ambles forward to the edge of the platform and spits onto the rails. After about five minutes of this, one of the baseball caps, without moving from the railings, spits towards the edge of the platform. Their train arrives and they get in. I have another ten minutes to wait.

Mirror, mirror

Three CRS push down the centre aisle - two white and one black. One of them stops and peers at the door to the loo, rasing his hands to his eyes as if he were gazing through the panelling. They move on to the end of the carriage, and lean against the glass. The two white ones engage in conversation, ignoring their comrade completely. After a while he moves in closer to them, changing position so that he is directly in front of them. The smaller white one shifts his shoulder round, blocking him out.