The two oriental-looking-but-eastern-european-speaking girls sitting behind me haven’t stopped yammering since we got on the coach in Victoria.
We’re now in Buckinghamshire.
I’ve got no issue with them yammering non-stop at each other in a tongue I don’t understand. No. My problem is nothing to do with the language.
My problem is everything to do with the non-stop yammering. And the simpering girly voices.
I want to turn round and say ‘Shut The Fuck Up!’
I want to do it in a mean and threatening way.
I don’t want to have to take refuge in the ear-bud world that I usually enjoy because today – being Friday afternoon/evening and also being the end of the week – I want to sleep.
I dozed off a couple of times on the way out of London but on both occasions I was dragged from the arms of
Mary Morpheus by the incessant yammer yammer and girly simpering with accompanying giggling.
Guess how old they are.
No, go on. Guess.
They’re both in the 24-26 bracket.
Fuck me, I’d like to do something with them and a bracket.
Hang them from the wall of the bus. On the outside. In a ‘stitch that you bitches’ kind of way.
I’m not normally grumpy when I’ve been woken up.
At least I don’t think I am; a little lower in the vocals, sure, but not grumpy at all.
This has nothing to do with being woken up.
It’s everything to do with being kept awake – and that’s a serious crime.
They’re at it again – and we’re nearly in Oxfordshire!
Now then, where did I put that bracket?