Me and the BFG

I have (for the past few weeks) been afforded the luxury of a drive to and from work. That is, that for ten days Ginger Beard has taken me forth into the morning chaos of the city aboard our orange dragon, without so much as the chug of a passing train. Yesterday, he informed me, that due to an early meeting, I would have to go back to the unwelcoming, dirty bosom of Network Rail, tail between legs, and once more share the same fetid airspace of the ten or twenty who only brush their teeth at night.

By the time the train moved, I was sweating. Cue Mr Business suit, oh is my Metro in your face, forcing me back against the bin. Cue, the brief, holy pit stop at Cottingley, where the doors faint open and we are briefly doused in breeze. And of course the five passengers who would rather tenderly press their bodies against one anothers and mine, then take the dreaded walk down the aisle. We continue like this, grazing, stretching, heating up, and thinking on early teenage fumbles which were less intimate.

When I'm asked if I want a ticket by (incredibly) a conductor who doesn't feel like engaging the carriage in a chat about how shit his job is, I take out my earphones, and hold them in my left hand. Now, one of the dangers, of which I've always been aware, of putting your Ipod on shuffle, is that at an inopportune moment, a song comes on which shows you in a particularly odd light. Thankfully, mine was only the full volumed remix version of Backstreet Boys, Everybody.

I spot the barriers, awash with frantic worker bees. I can do this. I can survive this. I spot a woman on  crutches, and make sure to head in a different direction. My ticket is in. My ticket is out. The doors open and I'm heading through. But no! From the corner of my eye, I see the woman on crutches has dropped her ticket. She ducks down, the crutches fly up, and I take one sharply to the knee. The barrier's decide to close prematurely. I turn to the side, and am struck in the gut. But I. Am. Through.

I look at myself in the mirror of the office toilets, hair dishevelled, mascara spotted under my eyes, my pale, sallow, traumatised face. And I know, that just like Beyonce once sang, I'm a fucking survivor.

Last night (because I like to provide the occasional, delightful insight into my broken mind) I dreamt that I was sexually propositioned by a giant. He picked me up from my doctor's appointment, let me travel through the city on his shoulder, dropped me on a bench, and licked my leg. I told him I had a boyfriend. The moral of the story is, that even when faced with the most likely of events, do the right thing.