That’s better: the teachers have just got off. I’m not even certain they are teachers, but that’s what I call them. Whoever they are, there must be a sitcom somewhere searching desperately for them. A group of four thirty-something academic types, one woman, three men, who cause uproar and outrage on the Paddington train each morning. Their sin? Irrepressible jollity. They’re happy. Their entire time is spent in loud argument or loud laughter. Sometimes they sing or recite poetry, or take photographs. Actually, I like them. But it’s always a relief when they get off, and leave the rest of the carriage to its silent, early morning wretchedness.
If I’m close to them, I occasionally hear snippets of earnest conversation. Last week, I heard one of them explaining why he had dumped his girlfriend recently: “Yes, she was beautiful, and kind, and young, and great fun to be with”, he said. “But our values were too different. She was just too rich for me. She always wanted to pay for everything. She even wanted me to give up my job and devote my life to spending her money. I just couldn’t cope with the thought.”
I spent the rest of the journey coping with the thought on his behalf.
