Countdown to Trolley Dollies

I saw the girl from countdown on my train last week. Two. Days. Running. She lives in my town, but I like to think we were meant to meet each other. She looked at me n' all. Her name is Rachel, which is the name of my girlfriend at this current point (I added in the tag-clause "at this current point" because if by unfortunate luck in the future we aren't together and I read this at a later point when we're not together then this is still factually accurate). Lots of people say she's very hot and she is really good at maths. You'd think on a word programme like Countdown they'd scrap all that number bollocks and stick with what they're genuinely good at. Words and letters. Nobody likes a smart-arse.

I've been careful not to appear stalkerish, because as much as she has kudos for replacing Carol Vorderman - every Uncle's favourite mistress of their dreams ("Consonant or vowel *whipnoise*) - she is still technically speaking a human being. A google of her name, a copy and paste into Twitter - PERHAPS Facebook - and that's it. I'm not in the mood for a legal case today. And my girlfriend wouldn't be too happy either.

Meeting people on the train is by in large, the future of socialising. It used to be the case in the 1900's when they had things like trams, prams, lambs and jam. They have those things nowadays too, but they play much less a part of everyday life as they did back then. And they definitely didn't rhyme. It's "marmalade" now. What we're going through is an electronic phase similar to that of puberty. Yeah it's great while it lasts, but when the tower topples and the forest turns white, you're back at square one. And that's where I'll be, with my train conductor's hat on and a pillow up my shirt so I suit the part better. Ultimately the machines fail and we'll have to actually speak to people again, face-to-face, in the same room, sharing that same odorous air that the steam train is giving off. And it's coal. It isn't pleasant. Reminds me of art classes.

It's not so bad. There are trolley dollies and the occasional mars bar and dirty magasine hidden underneath the Custard Creams. If you look beneath the thin net cloth over the top of the trolley you may even see the little gremlin that really pushes the trolley along. It's amazing what the NHS will do when the zimmer-frames run out. If you're able to ignore all of this or embrace it as the future, what you're reading this on will soon be obsolete. Or you could have your scribe engrave it on a stone in your courtyard lobby.