This morning, at about 7am, I was walking off the escalator at Clapham South tube station looking tres handsome, if I do say so myself, in a black Helmut Lang suit and black Costume Nationale shirt undone to *there*. I will admit that I was a tad cold as I stepped outside my front door but I rarely get to wear a suit in my line of work so when I do I feel, in every way, the uber professional, suave businessman. Of course, had anyone been aware that I was listening to Irene Cara’s “Flashdance” on my iPod the overall vision may have been slightly skewed.
As I sweep round the corner to the northbound platform I see that the train has already pulled up and the doors are open. I’m feeling way to cool to make a run for it, so instead I pick up the pace so that I can hop on before the doors close.
The doors start to beep and I’m literally about to step up into the carriage when all of a sudden, from absolutely nowhere, this tiny and seemingly frail grey haired old lady appears at my side. Using her entire upper body and with the strength of a thousand elephants she literally shoves me out of the way. As I stagger and try to regain my balance this ancient-powerful-Yoda-like woman nimbly hops up into the carriage a fraction of a second before the doors slide shut.
As the train begins to inch away from the platform she turns around, looks straight at me through the glass and smiles. The cow uses the very same smile used by my Grandma at Christmas after receiving Radox bath salts from me for the umpteenth year running.
And then she was gone.
The humiliation I felt was palpable. In an instant I had been cruelly transformed from afore mentioned suave businessman and into the bitch of a tiny, wrinkly octogenarian.
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