You never get used to seeing an Underground train operating over-ground, there’s something not quite right about it; like being a kid and seeing your teacher in the supermarket.
There’s no accounting for taste, but apparently some women don’t find whimsical tails about a bearded guard on the 11:17 to Dorridge sexy.
Rather than trundle the one and a half-minute journey across the city, the train, or this carriage at least, bounces.
The camera flashes from the group of girls is so constant anyone watching this train pass would think someone onboard was welding it together on the move.
Each time I’ve caught the last train out of Birmingham the journey has been about as relaxed and care free as a Daily Mail editorial.
The train is packed and so throughout it people are being forced to sit with people they would not normally choose to place their posterior near.
On some of the busier lines it’s believed that at any one time you are never more than eight feet from an oddball.
Postmodern cleaning, doing it after the mess has already been seen, like predicting the lottery numbers just after the draw.