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The volume is turned up to 11, Skinny Puppy is playing and my earphones are jammed in as far as they can go. Yes - it's train rage time!
Despite the train being virtually empty at New Street four young gals decided to join me at my table (well, three at the table and one off to the side). I lasted about five minutes of in-depth analysis of OK! magazine before I remembered I had FLA and SP CDs in my laptop bag.
Still, the noise is breaking through. Chatter about fashion, celebrity, bikini shops and diets.
Save me!
All this for a London meeting that will last an hour at most. Then I get the joy of refereeing my mother and brother as she attempts to find out why he and his (now ex-) girlfriend are. Or should that be aren't. Oh you get the point.
Last night seemed to be pick-on-Simon night. My internal monologue was at it, along with my conscience and two of my friends. It wasn't serious, nor am I offended. But perhaps the mirror of self-image has now slightly less of a rose-tint.
