Tea and Cakes

Another work trip. As I’ve been relieved of the car I was looking after, my train journeys will become even more frequent. This time I was returning from Drogheda, a trip that my local train station attendant had refused to sell me ticket for, as “I don’t know how much it costs”. I’ve seen this guy lose his temper before, screaming blue murder at a mother and her young daughter one morning, for trying to buy two tickets, so I wasn’t going to push it. The nice girl at Connolly sorted it out for me though. (Note to self: must write that complaint/thanks letter).

Anyway, back to the tale.

They got on at Balbriggan. Three of them, two girls and a boy. I wasn’t quite sure, but I think that he was the brother of one girl and the boyfriend of the other. Maybe they were all just very close. Cousins perhaps. It would certainly explain things. The blank, featureless faces of the simpletons they were. Some genes went wrong somewhere along the line.

One of the girls didn’t want to sit by me. I know this because the other girl (we’ll call her “Diamante”) and the boy sat opposite me, and the first girl (we’ll call her Glossal) looked at me, took in my unfashionable warm clothing (trousers, practical shoes, thick coat and scarf), the fact I was reading a book and wore no make up, and declared “I don’t want to sit here, lets go somewhere else”. Which was just dandy by me.

Off they went down the train, which was obviously filling up by now as they returned after a few minutes, and sat down with me again.

I pretended to read my book for the rest of the journey. It was tough. I didn’t actually want to meet their eyes, I was scared one of them would start threatening me and I’d be forced to deliver swift justice with my fist. I’ve never actually punched anyone before, and I’m pretty sure they were under 18, so I’d probably have lost my job if I did, but, well, I’d be doing society a favour, and I know it would have felt good.

The boys attire is barely worth mentioning. You know what he looked like. Shell suit, trainers, overly gelled hair. The girls didn’t use his name, but if I had to guess, I’d say Anto.
Diamante had long, GHD straight dark hair, and was wearing skin tight jeans with a tiny, waist exposing top, that showed off the diamante explosion coming out of her navel. No kidding, it looked like she’d been attacked with glitter glue. Her hands were covered in Elizabeth Duke for Argos gold rings (including a large sovereign ring, honestly, they just seem to follow me). Glossal also had long, GHD straight dark hair, but she was wearing less clothing. A tiny denim miniskirt, a small t-shirt and a fake fur waistcoat thing. You know the ones: Kate Moss was wearing them about 2 years ago, the entire world was wearing them 1 year ago, and it’s only just filtering through to the great unwashed.

Glossal and Diamante were discussing make up. “I only buy ‘jet black’ eyeliner me. That’s cos I like it really really dark, so I only buy ‘jet black’” I took a quick glance up at Diamante, who was sitting opposite me. Red lip gloss, pale face powder, blue eyeshadow. Why pick lips or eyes when you can go for both?

The conversation moved to Glossal’s recent tongue piercing.
“So, like, she said I can’t meet anyone for 4 weeks!” Said Glossal.
“Nah, it’s 2.” replied Diamante. “I met wi Tommo 2 weeks afta mine.”
“Wa? She sai’ 4 weeks”
“Nah, it were 2 weeks exactly I met wi him”
For those of you not familiar with the language of young people in Ireland, to “meet” with someone is, well, it varies depending on who you are and where you live, but anywhere between snogging and blow jobs, and perhaps more. Thus, the phrase “I met wi Tommo” meant that some part of Tommo was in Diamante’s mouth 2 weeks after she had her togue pierced.

I lost where exactly the conversation changed tack, but we were suddenly discussing one of their friends, who had apparantly punched a teacher. It was possibly Tommo, and that’s how it happened, but I’m not really sure.
Glossal was telling the tale: “… [the teacher] called him a gypsy, so he had ta”
“But that means Knacker!” Diamante exclaimed, outraged.
I sighed to myself.

As the train pulled in to Dublin the girls started talking about the times of the last train back. (Note: the boy didn’t say one word, not even when Diamante was discussing her previous conquests)
“The last train’s at half past eleven” Said Glossal.
“Yeah” replied Diamante, “Tha’s eleven and fifteen minu’s”

I swear, you couldn’t make it up.