This morning I’m afraid to say I arrived at Canada Water station in a state of being far from the Buddhist ideal. Soaking wet from the heavy rain and seeking solace in literature, I stood on the platform reading my book while I waited for the tube.
It turns out one of my feet was inside the yellow lines that have been painted on the platform to indicate the ebb and flow of human traffic, so as to better facilitate efficient movement.
I know this because it was pointed out to me by a militant yellow line fascist. A small, grey woman in her mid 50s took it upon herself to chastise me for my obnoxious free-thinking behaviour.
Rather than ignore her, I asked her where she’d obtained her qualifications for the role of Platform Monitor, as I had been considering a career change, and thought being a petty-minded busybody sounded like a job with prospects. I also asked her about the remuneration package for such a role.
She didn’t appreciate my sarcasm, and pursued my belligerent subversion of the yellow line system for a full 2 stops of my journey, much to the bemusement of our fellow passengers. I wish I’d just called her a cunt and left it at that. I’ve never sworn at a woman old enough to be my mother before and it would have been an interesting first.