Friday, July 04, 2003
Hanging On The Telephone
Notwithstanding those warbling-warbling-all-the-bloody-warbling-time Nokias, my greatest public-transport hate is still reserved for people who play their personal stereos too loud. The off-West-End production which is this Stranger's life, is too much of an out-of-key musical already, my dears, without it being forced to tap-dance to someone else's sodding soundtrack.
Which is why, tonight, I Wicked-Witched my way on down towards the girl three rows in front of me to announce to her (and, of course, to the rest of the Number 19) that yes, I really did adore David Bowie, and Rebel, Rebel is one of my favourite tracks ever, but not at eight o'clock in the evening on my way home (pub), and not on someone else's Walkman.
Whereupon she frostily informed me (and, of course, the rest of the Number 19) that she was actually on her hands-free mobile, and the Bowie I could hear was, in fact, coming from the stereo system of the BMW behind us, which was also stuck in the Rosebery Avenue/ City Road traffic jam.
It was then I slinked shame-facedly off the Number 19 bus, three stops before my destination, hoping, for once, I really was just an Invisible Stranger, and that no-one had noticed or heard me, and I could escape with at least a tiny bit of dignity intact.
Which is just when my own (bastard) mobile decided to warble-warble-bloody-warble. Loudly. Very loudly, in fact.
I hate it when that happens.