A fate worse than near death…

In this week’s blogpost, I find out the hard way that when the lock button in the first class loo on a Greater Anglia train flashes, it is in fact unlocked.

Do I really need to go on?

Fine. So it was one of those sheep in wolf’s clothing cubicles.  The type that looks all innocent on the outside with its fancy pants electronic curved door that opens and closes all smoothly at the touch of an equally innocent looking button. Welcoming you in, pretending to keep you nice and safe and secure while you go about your…stuff.

Frankie Boyle once did a skit in his stand-up show about what happens when these in-train, so-called luxury loos go wrong, involving some hapless drunk guy who accidentally opens the door and hilarity ensues etc etc. 

I’m not a guy. I wasn’t drunk. I used to love that skit.

You know when you’re walking down the street and you trip and you try and make it look like that’s what you intended all along by limping every few steps?

Turns out limping is easier and more convincing than repeatedly jumping up halfway through, flapping around like a panicked frog, beginning to cry, muttering oh god, oh god, while giving hands a cursory wash before sprinting through a train carriage like your arse is on fire.

Mercifully, the doors on these shame-pods operate extremely slowly. Also, I wasn’t actually sitting in first class. I upgraded on a facility-only basis purely because the nearest working cattle class bog was in, like, Norwich or something. So at least I didn’t have to sit amongst any of those unfortunate wrong-place-wrong-time-witnesses after the event.

Next week: a deadline! I have an actual DEADLINE.  Until then, after I’ve crawled into a hole to disappear, it’s edit, edit, edit, edit, synopsis, synopsis, don’t die, edit, edit, avoid public humiliation, edit, edit, edit…


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