Time once again for some input from our old friend and long suffering commuter Dirk over in Kent,
"Like a rare butterfly the blonde alighted on the seat next to me launching a heady waft of scent. There are precious few of these on my line and I didn't dare move a muscle for they're easily startled. An exploratory swivel to the right would have allowed me full appraisal but in circumstances such as this it's important not to register any acknowledgement at all. Like the person standing behind in the queue for the ATM I was aware of her presence but she was invisible to me, and I'd not have picked her out in an ID parade had she sported three heads.
I sat there ostensibly concentrating on my newspaper, getting giddy from the strain of trying to clock what she looked like out of the corner of my eye. A yellow curtain of hair concealed the facial details (just the one head), gloves were no giveaway (gloves?), leg was robustly-trousered, shoe was not exactly petite...but never mind, this was a welcome improvement on the usual travelling ghoul.
Much later, awaking from the customary doze and hoping that I hadn't been snoring in an unattractive slack-jawed fashion I was delighted to find she was still there. The time was fast-approaching when it was time to leave the train and all would be revealed. Like that interesting parcel under the Christmas tree that turns out to be a box of Hoover-bags I was to be equally disappointed. This was no young thing, not even a Paris Hilton or a Susan Hampshire. I'd have settled for Vanessa Feltz but instead this was Iggy Pop, or perhaps Rick Wakeman.
Let's hope we didn't sleep together."