Overheard

Ah how long I have waited for the days of my return. Through the snow and the wind, the language barrier and the Netto food, I have wallowed in my languid pit of hope and frustration for months. Finally, this winter, I’m back in business.

Before Christmas I took a tidy little jaunt out to Buxton for one solitary mystery shop. It was a pleasant if not chilly winters morning as I sat at a desk, buried in a book, on a relatively empty train carriage. Life was great.

Ah, more passengers! Well, please do come and sit down opposite and share with me the sight of the mid-morning mist rising gently from the peaks of the landscape before us, as we sit huddled behind a lens that shields us from the slight flick of occasional rain drops.

No? You want to talk about a potential tattoo, the taste of deodorant, and your soon-to-come wedding instead? Oh, well OK then I suppose. But please, can you keep your voices dow– oh, I see.

Their conversation lasted the entire journey. Two 17-year-old girls fresh out of college and living up the Christmas holiday experience, in Buxton. I never learnt their names, so Brown-hair and Lipstick is what I shall refer to them as. Brown-hair was evidently the boss. She was describing how she wanted a tattoo that travelled ‘like a grape vine’ from here (jabbing at her elbow) all the way up, along and then down again to here (a prod in the cleavage). Lipstick’s reply – a common trait when one is utterly bored of the subject matter – was to heighten her feigned interest with “no way, really?” Thus, Lipstick prolonged a conversation she had no interest in, out of pure obligation.

Lipstick managed to pry the conversation away by dumping her enormous bag on the desk in front of me and searching around inside. She got out a can of deodorant and sprayed over her jumper. She must have been sweating a hell of a lot to warrant 24-hour clothes protection. The pair descended into a full-blown discussion over the taste of deodorant. Riveting.

Luckily the train pulled in to Buxton station before the details of Brown-hair’s impending wedding could come out, and I skipped off down the hill to find my mystery shop. Shop done, it was time for home.

Stuck in Manchester station waiting for my connection, I decided a jaunt around the city would be a useful waste of my time. I did a cheeky little lap of the centre; took in the sights and all that. I stood on my route back to the station at a road crossing and overheard this little ditty. Two lads with heavy Manc-Asian accents were stood next to me. All I heard was:

“Yeah, yeah. Well, Home Alone One was alright. Home Alone Two was better. But Home Alone Three, well I just try and think it never happened.”

Yes! Thank you! Finally someone who is willing to discuss the merits and dissatisfaction of the Home Alone series instead of simply saying it’s shit.

Anyway, this was all pre-Christmas. Yesterday I went to Bradford for another single shop that took me far longer than it should have done. This is a picture of a boat I saw not 200 yards from my front door. What an earth a boat is doing in Honley I have absolutely no idea. There’s no chance that’s getting down the mild dribble of a river we have in the village.

I also saw this across the village station platform. The picture is a bit blurry, but I can confirm the sign reads: ‘Warning. Ancient Mine Shaft. Keep Out.’ Jinkies! If there’s anything more tempting to a gang of mystery solving hippies and a freakishly large dog it’s an ancient mine shaft. This goes for the youth of today as well, who will no doubt be drawn to the sign. In doing so, they will cross the tracks and could get run over. Disgraceful. It’s like putting a lump of cheese on a mousetrap, and in front of that laying some razor wire. The mouse is still gonna try and get the bloody cheese!

Overheard a woman on the train to Leeds talking business: “Okay, they’re nice people, but they’re not going to change the world.” Oh, and you are, are you? Mrs I talk loudly on the train about supply side costs so everyone thinks I’m smart. Mrs I’m boring the expensive shirt and tie combo off my colleagues neck with my anodyne business ‘strategy’. You’re not that big and clever. You’re on a crammed rush-hour train like everybody else. Not even in First Class. Go watch Home Alone and cheer up.

As I walked through Bradford I suddenly felt a tinkle of liquid on one side of my face. ‘Surely this cannot be rain’ I thought, and of course it wasn’t. A bus had sprayed its windscreen at the exact moment it surged past, leaving me with a delightful – yet odd tasting – pattering of anti-freeze over my face.