I tell many varied lies.
I promised an update on the new addition to the Hayes/Kitching family. Sorry, that ain't happening today. But here is something else!
I meet the best people.
Sometimes travelling by train can be a relaxing experience. This is usually the case if you have a direct train, and can just get on, relax for a few hours, and then get off and go about your business.
If you have to make connections, however, things become a little more complicated. For some reason, strangers hardly ever talk to each other on trains(despite the fact that conversation might actually make the journey seem quicker) but as soon as you're stranded on a platform waiting for the next freighter to Iceland, you're fair game for all the crazies.
Case in point: yesterday I was in the waiting area of Exeter St. Davids train station. It was pretty cold outside, and apparently First Great Western's solution to this problem is to build a waiting area entirely out of glass. Yeah, nice going.
So I'm standing there, shivering, when some haggard-looking short blonde guy comes up to me.
"They got shops round here?"
How the f*ck do I know? Then again, major city, so it's probably safe to guess 'yes'.
"How old are you?"
Whoa, this has taken a weird tangent. A second ago we were talking about shops, now we're on to personal details like my age? Movin' a little too fast there buddy. I tell him I'm eighteen, because I want to see where this is going.
"I just tried to get some Carlsberg from the shop 'ere, but I ain't got my ID on me. I'm 18 and everything..."
Yeah. Sure you are. I now know where this is going. He wants me to buy him alcohol, most likely(99% certain, but you never know) because he is underage.
What follows is my usual patter when confronted with this situation. First I outline the fact that I don't drink - never have, never will. They always, always ask why, without fail. Sometimes I fake some excuses, like 'it just doesn't appeal to me', which they decide to counter with trying to make me feel like an idiot for not numbing myself. I think this is due to the fact that people who have a problem with alcohol try to paint everyone else as the 'wrong' ones, so they can feel normal by comparison.
Since I don't want to spend ten minutes arguing with this guy about how I should/shouldn't imbide poison, I deflect his questioning with "My dad's an alcoholic, so..." For most people, this is uncomfortable enough information for them to stop with their train of thought. This guy, bless him, responds with "Yeah. Mine too. So you wouldn't buy me some booze then?"
Um, no.
Still, all is not lost, there are plenty of other people to ask, right? He asks me to watch his bag, and I can't even say 'no' before he's out the door. I spend five minutes hoping I'm not standing next to a bomb, whilst I watch him approach everyone from fellow teenagers to OAPs in his quest for ethanol.
He returns, carrying two cans of Special Brew. No one would buy them for him, so he stole them. I'd take some moral high ground here, except I've stolen in the past, and I've taken things more expensive than 5 worth of the Brew. I'm in no place to judge.
So he's sipping from the cans(yeah, two at once. He's a chain drinker) and starts rapping at me. No lead-up, nothing. The first one is okay, but they get progressively worse. As someone who has studied the dynamics of performance in general, I feel like I should tell him that he should be opening with something okay, then working towards his best piece as a crescendo, whilst gradually trying out his new or on-the-fly stuff as he builds up. Still, I know if I tried to explain this to him, no matter how many times I said "no, no, I don't rap" he would presume I did, and try to get some rhymes out of me.
Anway, at the end of his appalling freestyle, he says(and this is my favourite part of the entire day) "I can't read and write, but I can rap. I was born a poem."
He was born. A poem. Excellent.
He then proceeds to say "you're not a copper are you?" Um, no. Upon double checking that I'm not a member of the Met, he pulls some resin out of his pocket. This guy is carrying weed, while having commited petty theft just a few short(rap-filled) minutes ago. He is no Nobel-winner.
He proceeds to talk about how he just sells, not smokes. Well, except for a few puffs on a bong before he goes to sleep at night. Apparently it's hard to sleep in a care home. Wonderful.
At this point we are separated by the arrival of my train(not a moment too soon), and I have to wave goodbye to this strange young individual. I spend the rest of my trip pondering this man, in many ways a kindred spirit. Wait scratch that. In no way a kindred spirit. Still, for some reason he felt he could open up to me, which is nice.
Plus, now I know a dealer in Cambourne, which'll be handy if ever my personality does a 180-spin.