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.
