Friday really was their day. The day of the elderly folk. Before I say any more, I know I'll be old one day. "Private numbers", it all started with "Private numbers". As the train pulls in to Redhill, an elderly gentleman in a smart black suit emerges from the next carriage. "Private numbers", he says, mutter mutter mutter. He seems to be addressing everyone, anyone, not particularly differentiating between those who pretend not to notice and those that stare intently. He speaks a bit like a preacher, he certainly appears to believe he is sharing a poignant something with us, a brilliant truth that will set us all free...I'm just not sure what these "private numbers" are, nor what they should be used for.
The incident on the escalator was one of the funniest moments of my entire life. Busy lunchtime, busy shopping centre, busy escalator. An old dear stops right on the stainless steel plate at the bottom of a crowded down escalator. The rest of us shoppers are carried mercilessly on, in the style of the motorway "pile-up". People were scrambling frantically through the tiny gaps either side of her. One chap grabbed her by the hand and guided her out the way. As I walked past I heard the old dear asking directions "Excuse me young man, but do you know the way to Boots?".
Enjoying a pot of tea in the Harliquin, a granny cafe that provides incredibly cheap tea. An elderly chap in shirt and tie (they always wear shirt and tie) is sitting across the room. Grinning inanely, possibly senile, but happy none the less. He disappears for a while, then reappears, then wonders up to the counter. "Excuse me", he says cheerily, "but do you sell choc ices?".