* immediate shame-faced pun disclaimer
It began yesterday at London Bridge station at 6pm. I was waiting on platform 5 with my friend Stefanie, on our way home from making brunch at a friend's. I am not in love with Stefanie, although she is extremely nice. You will recall that it was London Marathon day. He – will I ever know his name? – was edging gingerly down the steps in a tracksuit, carrying a giant furry cow's head in one hand. I pointed this out to Stef, and he heard me, and smiled a bashful 'Yes, I have been wearing a giant cow's head for 26 miles' smile. And then he was gone, round the corner, on to a different platform, to live a different life. Now I can't stop thinking about him, his blisters that may need tending, his freaky furry animal head that may need carpet-shampooing. I am actually considering the submission of one of those 'Lovestruck - Change Your Fate' ads in The London Paper: 'You: cow's head, tracksuit, limp. Me: brunette, consumptive pallor, carrying a griddle. Fancy an ice bath?' I have resisted the temptation to say 'you're udderly gorgeous', because, Christ, I've got my pride.
If Shakespeare was alive, I think he would be renaming his draft of Romeo & Juliet tout de suite…
5 comments:
His name is Beau Vine.Lives in Leytonstone.
I hope he got home OK. It was friesian cold by that time of the evening.
In which case perhaps you could offer to buy him a Jersey?
Unlike you, I have no pride whatsoever, and therefore can unreservedly recommend that you place that ad in the London Paper. But dairy reply?
How cud he not?
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