More Rage

You may remember I got myself all worked up and in a bit of stew in January about
various things to do with travelling on public transport, open legged men with wide open papers using both friggin armrests, kids and their fucking music, dawdling old buggers, feet on seats, smelly people, sniffers, people who cant ride the escalators, ladies putting on their makeup, open mouthed eating, people who cant work the barriers, etc, etc, etc.

I can feel another one coming on.

I’ve been noticing people's habits, foibles, randomness a lot of late… and I can't help but stare. And tut. And curl my lip. And mutter “ewwww” and “yuck” and “you weird dirty fucker” under my breath.

Take Lady-Who-Eats-Her-Eyebrows for example. She seems normal. She dresses quite smart. She has an M&S shopper bag. She has gold rimmed specks. She has pale pink painted nails. But. As she reads her paper, she randomly tugs at the hair in her eyebrows, backwards, and then once she’s pulled out a few choice strands SHE EATS THEM. Oh yes she does.

Take Man-Who-Can’t-Leave-His-Crotch-Alone. He’s kind of young, maybe 32. He wears a suit and has spiky hair. He has a beaten up old brown leather satchel type briefcase that he neatly stores by his feet. But. As he reads his copy of The Economist he is forever fiddling with the creases in his trousers at his groin. Not just adjusting them once or twice as he sits down and settles himself. Oh no. Every 60 seconds or so. Literally. He neatly “arranges” himself. He reads AT MOST 3 lines of whatever article has caught his eye, then he closes the magazine and rearranges himself AGAIN. And again. And again. Over and over and over again…. Looney. Surely.

Take Pulls-The-Skin-Around-Her-Nails-Till-It-Bleeds-Lady. She is a stunning, very very attractive Indian lady. Slim, great hair, trouser suits and immaculate make up. And yet. Her hands look shocking. Genuinely shocking. The skin around her nails has been pulled and picked and torn and nibbled till it literally bleeds. And still she doesn’t stop. The whole journey she is picking. It looks so very very sore, and yet, still she picks.

Take Old-Man-With-Itchy-Scalp. He’s not really old. At least, probably not much older than my mum. And he looks average, you know, not too smart, not too casual. I don’t know what he does for a living, I couldn’t hazard a guess, but sweet god I wish he’d wash his bloody hair. Cause he is forever scratching his head. And the flakes keep on falling. And he examines the dirt, or the scalp, or the skin bits or whatever it is that get caught behind his nails. And he uses his thumbnail to dig the debris out. And he flicks it. Yep, flicks it. And once or twice it’s fallen in my direction. And it’s all I can do to stop myself hurling…

And then there are the hundreds of nose pickers and ear diggers. Do these people think they have an invisibility shield around them or something? WE CAN SEE YOU. So every time you pick your nose, examine the contents and then eat it – I CAN SEE YOU. When you dig out your ears, look at the wax, roll it into a wee ball and smear it on the seat cover – I AM WATCHING YOU. You disgust and repulse me. You turn my stomach and make me hate you. Save your toilette for the privacy of your own home. No-one wants to see you.