Working on a Saturday

Working on a Saturday has its perks.

Or one, at least: the journey to work. Never are the roads quieter, the queues for ticket machines shorter, the trains more sparse, dustbin men more noticeable or the people stranger.

Because people really are strange. Usually walking down Pentonville Road involves flurries of people dodging, resisting full english breakfasts for under a fiver, but today I got to see a small, bald Asian man wearing Adidas tracksuit bottoms and a black cagoule kiss is hand, reach down and touch the pavement, draw and imaginary cross on his chest with his fingers and hop on the number 73.

Superstition, I don't know. But I stopped thinking about when a taster sized pot of Eton Mess - a mixture of fresh fruit, whipped cream and meringue - was put in my hand. It was good, and needed, and took the edge of the 0805 to Bedford, a train that always leaves five minutes earlier than advertised.

A point which the two all-in-black and dosing drunkards would've been entirely unaware. Monday to Friday the seats are home to free newspapers and overweight briefcase carriers. Once more, I was cheered by reprobates.

And they were friendly two, in their own way. "Where's this train going?", drunk man A demanded. "Bedford," the man opposite said. "Does it go to St Albans?", drunk man A persevered. "Yes," the man opposite said. "Have we missed it?", drunk man A wondered. "No," the man opposite said.

And with that, he got up, went to the toilet, and I didn't see him again for the rest of the journey. Leaving drunk man B to sit up, swap seats, locate his shoes and apologise.