scum scum scum
A small lady with fake-blond hair drawn tightly against her head by a short pontytail mutters ‘scum scum scum’ under her breath as she rises. I can barely hear the chink of her three large, gold, hooped earings dancing together over the sound of flirting and empty high spirits from passengers further down the carriage. ‘We love Leeds’
They all alight at Peterborough.
A sleeping passenger on the other side of the isle wakes, pukes half digested pringles on the seat next to him, places a newspaper over the puke then goes back to sleep. Another passenger pulls his scarf up over his nose and buries his head deeper in his book while hugging a guitar case.