Severe Jam Damage

It’s lovely to meet friends for lunch at Christmas time.

It’s even lovelier to have a couple glasses of wine while you’re meeting them.

It’s not so lovely to have to come back into the office, pretend to be sober and hang around till 5 o’clock though.

The Nosepicking Lesbo Nun:

It’s the Christmas season, so of course my life is a current whirl of parties, soirees and drunken debauched dishco’s. As such I’ve been staying at my parents house more often than not lately, because it’s quite hard to convince a taxi to drive me back home to Walton’s mountain at around 3 in the morning. Due to this, I am (un)happily resigned to taking the 7b into work the next morning, which is (on the positive side) an Express bus, but (on the negative side) means that I am exposed to the ghastliness of the common or garden variety of commuter. In particular I am talking about the Nosepicking Lesbo Nun. Or NLN as she shall be known henceforth.

NLN doesn’t get onto the bus until the Baker’s Corner stop and for some unknown reason she always, always sits beside me. Is it my perfume? My long lustrous hair? Or the way I might look at ye of an early morning? (With great rage and hatred mostly.) I don’t know to be honest. But I do not that the NLN, like a heat seeking missile always manages to track me down and squash her oversized ass into the seat beside me on the bus. Recently I was laden down with a suitcase on my morning commute so sat at the back of the bus in one of the ’special’ seats. I thought perhaps she would ignore me, or not see me, or anything really. But alas, no. She sought me out and then proceeded to pretty much sit on me. Me, there with my suitcase squashed up under my feet and she leaning against me like I’m an old lamp post.

We never speak. The unwritten rule of commuting is that you must never speak to your seat mate. Not that I particularly want to anyway. So, you are probably asking yourself how do I know she’s a nosepicking lesbo nun if we’ve never exchanged so much as a word?

NosePicker
Well I can see her picking her nose, the entire trip (or most of the entire trip, see below.) It is really quite disgusting to see a 50 something year old woman with her index finger shoved up into her brain. It’s disgusting to see anyone doing it to be honest but to have to sit beside them for 45 minutes while they scavenge and poke around up there, just turns my stomach.

Nun
I don’t honestly know if she’s a nun but I’ve had some clues. When she’s not foraging in her nasal cavity she’s got her rosary beads out. Recently I had the (dis)pleasure of having her sit behind me droning on and on all the way into town as her beads clacked together. Also another time she dug around in her tardis like satchel for some official looking letters from the Holy Sisters of the Consecrated Wine Glass or somesuch. Maybe she’s applying to the convent and all this praying and bead clacking is just the way you practise to be a nun. I’ve no idea.

Lesbo
This is perhaps my most unfounded accusation. I have no proof of her sexual proclivities other than the fact that every day she sits beside me and then when I am getting off the bus, instead of standing up to let me out of the seat she simply swings her legs out a little bit so that I am forced to squeeze past her. I don’t know if she’s looking at my ass or not. I don’t really want to think about it.

Ahh, well. Pretty soon the silly season will all be over and I’ll be back staying in Walton’s mountain, poorer than a churchmouse and unable to go to any social occasions so I won’t have to deal with NLN in the mornings. Frankly, I’m worried that I might miss the old bag.