Sir_Nigel Posted February 9, 2015 Share Posted February 9, 2015 He’s a hulking great slab of flubbery flab whose doughy excesses and elbow and knee spill over his seat and across onto me so I’m caught in a rib-crushing weighty compression like a medieval way of extracting confession. And he’s brought along snacks in large multipacks to manfully munch before he has lunch: bite size pork pies, a cheap and nasty corned beef pasty, a tubful of mini rolls suitably dinky, a large pack of party bites curried and stinky. He also smells faintly of cheese, he could do with a squirt of Febreze Reason enough to flounce off in a huff but the train is too full so… there’s nowhere to go. And why should I let the smelly fat get take over my spot like the Magic Porridge Pot? There seems little chance I could halt the advance. Would the fat sod even feel a sharp prod? Complaints would be futile, I can’t put the boot in, I’m like a small nation encroached on by Putin. But I stubbornly cling to my slim half-a-seat, feeling him wheezing, hearing him eat and pray I don’t come to no permanent harm as another spare tyre flows over the arm. Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
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