Beautiful summer’s day. Summer has dashed into action, leaving Spring still snoozing under the duvet. Nature trying to get with the programme as fast as possible, with explosions of flowers and greenery everywhere. Front garden adorned with blue anemones and pale yellow primroses, gladdening cynical heart of Post Traumatic Commuter for 0.5 of second she has to admire them before dash to station. Not a tree in Esher has shown a leaf all year, but now buds are sprouting, birds are madly singing, and the embankment down Station Path has overnight turned bright green with new growth. Feel v positive after hideously long winter, song in heart and on lips as run down path to station, though as not discarding winter clothing until May as strict adherent to old English saying ‘Ne’er cast a clout till May be out’ am wearing thermal vest and tweedy shirt (last looks better than it sounds) and thus overheating badly.
Overheated somewhat last night on 345 bus to Battersea Bridge, which took as meeting friend D who did Alpha course with some years back at idyllically-sited St Mary’s, Battersea, and now embarking with on short theology course run by new vicar. Church on Thames path overlooking river, v picturesque and stuffed to the wooden rafters by nice genteel ladies none of whom commute.
Get bus at South Kensington and troop upstairs where start reading Evening Standard and embarking on spiritual reverie. At next stop, posh Chelsea type, like blokes in ‘Made in Chelsea’, Post Traumatic Commuter’s favourite TV programme, only less good-looking and less posh, get on and embark on phone call. Posh Chelsea type have voice like braying donkey that used to live in paddock across road from Sir William Perkins’s Grammar, esteemed alma mater, and disturb lessons, which why Post Traumatic Commuter receive ‘Unclassified’ in French ‘O‘ level.
‘Shhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhsh!’ say Post Traumatic Commuter, dropping spiritual reverie like hot brick.
‘I am trying to hold a conversation on the phone,’ bray deeply offended Posh Chelsea type, bristling and pouting at same time.
‘You are shouting, matey’ say Post Traumatic Commuter.
‘I AM NOT SHOUTING!’ shout Shouty Pouty Louty.
Bald bloke in seat in front of him turn around and fix Shouty Pouty Louty with pleasant but steely look David Carradine adopt in ‘Kung Fu’ before taking out baddy.
‘You are shouting’, he say. Post Traumatic Commuter reward him with smile like Wellington greeting arrival of Blücher at Battle of Waterloo.
Shouty Pouty Louty stop braying and continue on phone at acceptable level. Post Traumatic Commuter drop into spiritual reverie which last until arrive at St Mary’s Battersea and find no wine, no coffee. Just the water of enlightenment.