No Jury Would Convict Me
I am just so close to throttling someone with my bare hands. I only hope he doesn't make too much noise when I jump on him. You see, I'm on the long, snaking National Express train to Inverness. It's the one that sets out from London King's Cross and by the time I join it at Perth there are usually loads of empty seats. Not tonight, though. Tonight I had to trundle my luggage from one carriage to the next until I found a seat in Coach B. That's the quiet coach, the one where you're not supposed to use your mobile phone, chat to other passengers or operate a pneumatic drill. Very peaceful it is too.
At least it was until the man behind me opened a bag of crisps. Even that wouldn't have been so bad if he would just eat them like a normal person. But this guy! One crisp every five minutes and every bite sounds like someone crushing chicken bones with a rolling pin. I tell you, his mouth has better acoustics than the Albert Hall.
Oh no, now he's blowing his nose. It's like a trumpet solo at the ³ÉÈË¿ìÊÖ Proms. Look, I'm sorry, but I'm no longer responsible for my actions. If you hear my name mentioned on Good Morning Scotland tomorrow you'll know what it's all about.
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