(continued from (the day before) yesterday)

Yes, yes, I know I promised you the conclusion to this story yesterday, but I had to make a quick work trip abroad with work. Unfortunately, the country I went to does not appear to have any Internets that you can use. It is a very nice place to look at, but the language is pretty much indecipherable. Fortunately, most of the locals have a passable grasp of English, despite a quite ridiculous accent when attempting our language. If you fancy taking a trip there yourself, take a look here.

Anyway, the story. I have never slept in a train station. It is not a life experience I was particularly looking forward to, but this was the reality of the situation. I was a bit drunk, and I did not want to get robbed or bummed to death in my sleep, so I did what any normal person would do and put my wallet, phone, and change into my underpants. Then I did my belt up as tight as it would go, and tried to get some sleep.

I could not sleep though, due to the morbid fear of someone managing to get into my pants and thinking that the loose change was some sort of payment for services not yet rendered.

Also, the seats in Paddington are not conducive to a restful nights sleep. Which is understandable, if you are trying to stop vagrants from setting up home, as I suppose Paddington is. But I am not a vagrant, I am just a spectacularly stupid man who wanted to sleep for a few hours.

As I sat there with my head bowed, trying for all the world to get just a few moments sleep, someone sat next to me.

I smelt him long before I saw him, and as he sat he mumbled something in what I assumed to be Arabic. He would get up every few minutes, go for a walk in his tramp suit, then come back and mumble again. Imagine your most annoying fidgety ex-girlfriend and then make her smelly and homeless. It was just like that, but without the spooning.

About halfway through my stint in the chair, I was awoken by the mumbling tramp.

“Hey, HEY, where my stuff?”

“You got my stuff? Where my stuff?!”

“I do not have your stuff.” I answered, assuming he was referring to the plastic bag he had been carrying earlier.

“WHERE MY STUFF!”

“Look, I do NOT have your fucking stuff, so fucking stop asking me the where the fuck your fucking stuff is, I do not fucking know!” I wittily retorted, as I do not do well with a lack of sleep.

With that, he wandered off again, I assumed to look for his stuff.

A few minutes later I was again woken, but this time by someone altogether more pleasant.

“Excuse me Sir, sorry to bother you, but this gentleman claims that you have his stuff?”

“Officer, I assure you I do not have his stuff.” I responded to the two policemen now stood in front of me, “Trust me, if I was going to steal something it would be something good, like jewellery or a phone, not a tramps carrier bag.”

“Where my stuff!” added the tramp.

“Sorry Sir, we’ll leave you to it.” concluded the policeman.

With that he an his policeman colleague took the tramp in a suit away, and out of the station.

The remaining hour or so was uneventful and I bought a coffee and boarded my train home. Everything seemed to finally sorting itself out, right up until the point where I got fined for having a now out-of-date train ticket.

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