The kindness of strangers

Warning: I had planned a post titled 'leeches' on how strange it is that some people at a mere hint of friendliness suck themselves into your life oblivious of how unwanted they are. Workshift switching fatigue has decided against it but you may find fragments of irritation of the same nature in the post below.

Looking nearly my least attractive I seem to still appeal to strangers in such a way that it is impossible for them to check notice boards or ask the railway station attendant their trivial questions. No, it is much more preferable to bother me while I'm enjoying my last carefree minutes before I have to start working. In exchange for my quick and acurate answers they are so generous as to provide me with advice. Unsollicited advice, there are few things I like less. And for your information, you personal space invading overly motherly middle aged cow, I'm not cold I wear short untill half November.

After the night shift, knowing I have at least two hours before I can get a train. I slowly walk to the station and make for the central waiting room so as not to be stuck alone on a extremely well-lit sterile platform. For the first quarter or so my companions are sleeping homeless people so napping is out of the question. I get into ready-to-doze-off modus and stare blankly at the not-so-cunningly artistic pattern of floortiles. An hour and a half of waiting to go and there appears my knight in shining armour, sent by divine purpose to warm my lonely nights or sit close enough to thouroughly disgust me with his improper English, arrogant patronising smile, cheap compliments, barely audible whisper and the assumption it is ok to just caress/hug/kiss random strangers. Good thing my nose is blocked from working in airconditioned spaces or I might have reeked the stench of alcohol on him too. Have I asked for this nitwit to lure me into giving my phone number (do not panic loyal readers I was tired not naïve), did I unwillingly invite him to declare his eternal love and friendship by not moodily barking out my independance as I would usually do but smile a tired yet possibly apreciating looking smile as he cycles by waving at everybody caring to look? It would seem so.

Well if glazy eyes, unkept hair, worn out pink trainers, cereleum blue sneaker socks, dirty beige shorts, an oversized light blue sweater, pink/purple stains of paint on all exposed body parts, unshaven legs and the unsual smell of disinfecting soap mixed with waste heap stink and restroom odour are what it takes. Watch out, menfolk, here I come!