Sylvia

Every now and then we get a message on our answerphone from Sylvia, an elderly lady calling to speak to her friend Denise. We've spoken to her once or twice, when we've been home to answer her call, explained she's got the wrong number but then a few days will pass and we'll have a message telling Denise that she's going to wait outside for her and will see her soon. 

Yesterday Sylvia had called twice, one of the messages was brilliant, a little window into the life of a stranger. "It's 10.27 and you're either out of the house already or you're not up yet, while I am here tucked up in bed, I have had my breakfast..." a perky sounding Sylvia tells Denise, the call is signed off "Love Sylvia" as if she's ending a letter to her. 

I wonder does Denise check in on Sylvia regularly? Maybe she calls her because she's not heard from her for a while not knowing she's returning a call from Sylvia that she never actually received because the message is falling on confused ears in our living room? Does Denise pick her up on time or is Sylvia left waiting in the cold at the end of the road, never to be collected because she told the wrong answer machine that she was going out to wait for her? 

Poor Denise could easily get a reputation as being the unreliable type who has no regard for her elders, her elders who misdial phone numbers.

There's something about these messages, which are really nothing but a voice inside an answering machine, that I find desperately sad. I don't know who Sylvia is but I know when the day that I realise we've not had a message for Denise for a long time comes I'll feel a little bit sad that she's gone.

Such a drag

Allegedly, a few months ago I agreed with Ian that I'd go to watch some drag racing over the bank holiday weekend. I have little recollection of this conversation but last week I went through with the promise.

I can't really tell you an awful lot about the racing itself, mainly because I spent the 7 hours (no, really) that we sat in the grandstands fearing that I was sure to plummet to my death. Have you seen Final Destination? I was starting to feel like the film with the racing incident was actually a documentary. The grandstand where we sat gave a great view of the quarter mile of track we needed to see, however they were made of the most rickety wood I have ever seen, rotten and flexing as you climbed the stairs. I sat rigid, my arse bones digging into the wooden seat, trying desperately not to move too much because it felt like the whole thing moved whenever I did. This Final Destination fear wasn't helped by Ian's friend telling us about a man who once dropped dead in the crowd of spectators after a piece of shrapnel from a car flew through the air and landed in his chest.

Observations

- I had to wear my gig ear plugs because the noise of the cars was so fucking loud 

- A lot of the junior racers and one or two of the grown up racers were girls/women. I was pleasantly surprised about this, it was really nice to see

- That someone managed to get a car I would love (a '90s Peugeot 205) up to 130something mph in the space of a quarter of a mile 

- During the first race, just as I was texting my friend suggesting that we could have a go at it in our cars, one of the cars veered across the track and smashed into a barrier, I swiftly changed my mind.

Despite what I said up there, on the way home I suggested to Ian that he should get his Midget back on the road and we could become a racing team. It must've been a moment of madness on my part, I even said "there's enough room for a much bigger engine in there, isn't there?" I don't know what I was thinking, I really don't. I also suggested I should do the driving because I'm lighter and so we'd have a weight advantage. I have rethought this lunatic idea now, I need the kitchen finished before one of us kills ourselves racing down a drag track. It's a dangerous business whether you're spectating or participating. 

Where we sat, see what I mean? I actually couldn't sit on the kitchen chair the next day without a cushion for support, the bones in my arse were just too sore. Yes yes, I know I shouldn't complain about that but I was so sore, I really was.

Lord of the dance

We were ushered into a large dark room with tiered seating at one end and a black curtain around three sides at the other end. I glanced down at the programme and discovered that the first performance we'd be watching was going to be Stomp! (people banging bin lids), my heart sank. Also featuring on the list of performances was some interpretative dance, my heart sank even further down than I thought it could.

You may wonder what on earth I was doing in such a place, given my obvious dislike of anything we'd be watching. Well, a few weeks ago my brother had left a message with Ian asking if we wanted to watch him dance. Upon further investigation I discovered that he'd refused to allow my step mum to go and so I felt duty bound to accept his invitation. He's dyspraxic which means he struggles with his co-ordination, so I had absolutely no idea what to expect from the evening but I left there feeling so proud and a little teary. I welled up as soon as he started dancing, sadly he was involved in the Stomp! performance but there were no bin lids, just some thigh and a bit of chest slapping. Seeing him, concentrating so hard, sometimes managing to get himself in time with the others made me want to weep. Not from sorrow but pride and a little sadness that our Dad wasn't there to see it. He would have been beaming, as any parent would I suppose but my brother is most certainly our Dad's son, he's outgoing, he knows everybody, you can't go anywhere with him without some saying hello, he's also a performer, as our Dad was. Dad loved to be on stage, singing or dancing - the stories I could tell... and so does my brother.

After the initial sense of dread (I mean, it was Stomp! after all) my heart was well and truly warmed. The way the dance group looked after the others, how they didn't appear to be judging any of the people with special needs they were leading, sometimes people are really lovely, aren't they? To be honest, the fact nobody told my brother to stop bloody singing (I could see him singing along) was a miracle in itself.

When your heart feels heavy

I have the right hump of late. You know when you wish you could sleep for a month or three? Or do a Reggie Perrin if only the thought of being submerged in water didn't make you breathless and feel like vomiting everywhere 

My old man

I'm writing this on Sunday 21st July 2013, this time thirteen years ago I still had a Dad, in fact at about this time we were in the process of having a party in his honour, he was a popular man and the pub we'd hired was packed with people. The last night he was alive he didn't even seem ill yet within a few short hours he would lose his battle against a brain tumour. He was fun, always joking, always singing, he was a self employed mechanic by day but by night he was a compere, a showman. 

I've talked about him before, that was when I was describing him calling me into his bedroom to watch him take his top off in the dark. It's entirely innocent, honest. I have better stories about him than that, I'll share them one day, they're pretty funny.

I had drafted half a post about the day he died, the day my heart smashed into a million pieces but just writing it in my notebook made me weep so I'm going to give typing it up a miss. Besides, you don't want to read that anyway, do you?

Instead of such a maudlin post and as it's the anniversary of his death I thought I'd post a picture of a photograph that sits on my chest of drawers in the bedroom.

In which I observe some strange goings on

The ten minute walk between my office building and the local shopping precinct can be an interesting journey. Sometimes, you'll pass a few people crowded on and around a bench drinking cider and shouting at each other. Sometimes, you'll see a car park attendant scuttling away from the general area of the local sex shop with a DVD box shaped plain package clutched tightly under his arm.* Mostly, you'll pass fellow office workers, strolling back from a sandwich shop and the drunks heading towards the benches, with their cide in hand. Sometimes, there is a string of events like there was today. 

There is a police van, one of those giant yellow ones that house an entire troop of officers (what is the collective noun, I wonder?). It is parked right on the corner of the street with the methadone chemist on one side and the housing association on the opposite side. There are four officers, two of them walk a woman in handcuffs around to the back of the van and help her to clamber in. Another clutches some clothes, while the fourth talks to a man in his twenties who sits, perched on the window ledge of a restaurant. I have my earphones in so I can't hear what's being said but I am aware there is a strange air of calmness, the woman isn't putting up a fight and the man on the window ledge seems to be engaging with the officer talking to him. I carry on walking, on the next corner three teenage girls stare, they've presumably witnessed the whole spectacle and, satisfied that it's come to an end, they start to make their way in the opposite direction. Each one glances over her shoulder to make sure she's not missed anything.

Around the corner something stops me in my tracks, I catch a glimpse of a neon car peeking out from behind a big white van. I take a second look and realise the car is covered in some kind of hairy fabric, the strands moving about in the breeze. Two men stand nearby, they don't seem to be confused, they admire it, they look at it as if it's the most normal optional extra you could get on a car (if it was normal, I'd have leopard). It's parked outside a bar that's opening soon, it must be part of their advertising campaign and it's crying out for a photograph...

Across the road, as I get closer to the shops an elderly man careers past mere millimetres away from me on his mobility scooter, startled, I look up and that's when I notice them. Hoards of people, dozens of them spilling out of the shops and the bingo all just ahead of me, then I notice the fire engine inching its way through the car park. I don't see any flames or smoke but I do see the bewildered people, customers, employees, casual onlookers, nobody quite sure what they should do now. I carry on, past the people standing at their fire assembly points, I walk past one of the evacuated shops and there I spot the best thing I've seen so far, a pair of women who, instead of fleeing the potential fire, have taken the opportunity to have a sit down on the garden chairs that are on display outside a shop which might just be on fire. 

*Ok, so this only happened once but it's always amused me, the slightly shifty look in his eye and the speed at which he walked away, desperate to get out of the vicinity. 

In which I go round and round in circles

I hate exercise, I really do. If you love it then that's fine and to be honest I'm a little bit jealous of you. If you know me in real life, or even if you follow me on Twitter those two sentences will be a little confusing because I am always on about going to the gym. I go every night, Monday to Friday, unless I have something else planned for straight after work. Every day as I approach the gym I secretly will for something to have happened to the building that would mean it was closed for the day. You see, I can't justify to myself skipping a visit there, not going is being lazy but if the decision is taken out of my hands I feel ok about it. I think I've had this routine for about 7 years now, I was super fat when I joined the gym, I was pretty lazy about it then too but I went anyway because a friend I worked with was going to and it really helped my motivation. She stopped going but I didn't, I carried on and got the exercise bug once it started working and the weight started coming off. There was something I hadn't banked on, and I know this is really really stupid, but once you've got really fat and you start to lose weight you have to change your entire lifestyle, there's no going back to being a couch potato unless you want to undo all that hard work. They don't show you that on the TV shows do they? They just show someone drop a few lbs, go on Gok Wan's programme, buy some sucky-in-knickers and that's that. Nobody tells you before you get fat that if you want to not be fat you're going to have to start exercising and you're bloody well going to have to keep it up. Don't get me wrong, I'm not totally thick, I just wish I'd realised this before. You see, my body seems to have got used to a high level of exercise and when it wanes I really notice a difference. And that is precisely what I'm fed up with, the prospect of a lifetime of having to force myself to run/cycle/cross train regularly just to keep up what I started. I wouldn't mind but I'm not even as thin as I once was but that was unsustainable. Now however, I'd like to drop a dress size but I just can't find that motivation in me any more, or maybe I don't want it enough? There's pretty much no point to this post whatsoever, it's just an outpouring from my brain, through my fingers and onto here. I'm going to stop now because I need to put some lycra on and get myself to the gym where I will complain almost non-stop about being there.

Twat hat Saturday

The other day, while I was banging on about my motoring triumphs that in reality are nothing to write home about, I mentioned visiting my friend Hannah but I didn't tell you why I was visiting her, did I? Well, I am very pleased to tell you that I was at her house to collect an award, there was no read carpet leading to her door and no paps about but there was juice and cake, and an award. I am the proud winner of her competition #twathatsaturday, I got a brilliant handmade @Onegirl1cup mug. It's like getting an Oscar only better because you can't drink out of an Oscar can you? I'm sure you're dying to know what I did to win such a prestigious title, well I tweeted a picture of myself and our friend Leanne looking like twats in hats and Hannah judged us to be the best twats in hats that day, I'm pretty sure we're the best ever but I wouldn't like to put any of you off entering in future.

You're dying to see the winning picture, aren't you?

I've cropped Leanne out of this, I figured she may not want her picture plastered all over the internet. It's an old picture from a day out at Port Sunlight Village - a little place you should definitely go to if you ever get the chance.

Anyway, the important thing here is I won a prize, I never win anything so it was especially brilliant. I had no idea what my prize was going to be but I was bloody thrilled with what I got. Here I am modelling it (looking like a twat with the mug to prove it) when we stopped off at the shops on the way home from Hannah's. I am not sure how I managed not to get kicked out of there while I fished around in my bag, unwrapped the mug, tried on stupid hats and took about 42 pictures in a bid to get a half decent one, all the while my fringe was jabbing me in the eyeballs.

Are you jealous of it? I bet you are. You can get your own one with whatever you want painted onto it, have a word with Hannah and she'll make something awesome just for you.

Have you ever won something? What was it? 

Edit: this isn't a sponsored post, by the way

A secret

Reader, I have been harbouring a secret for a long time now, I've been learning to drive. I've not really mentioned it to anybody, not even people in real life, it's something I've been doing on the quiet, I haven't wanted to discuss it in case I failed my test. You see, I'm a defeatist at heart, if something doesn't work for me on the first attempt it's almost a given I won't even try it again. I don't ever truly believe in myself, I'm not looking for sympathy or fishing for compliments here, I'm merely stating a fact. Anyway, back to the driving. I put off taking my theory test for an absolute age, apathy got in the way. I finally took it on my birthday this year, I nearly walked out halfway through, I was so convinced I'd failed. I mean, how many know where a horse is going if it's in the left hand lane approaching a roundabout?* I almost nodded off during the hazard perception section, the videos were hypnotic and incredibly dull. I read over my answers twice, one or two that had had me stumped meant I felt as if I'd done the whole thing wrong. I left the room and awaited my results. I'd got 47/50, good job I didn't leave really. And then for the next couple of months I drove round and round with my instructor, every Saturday morning, we finished all his mock test routes, we drove through snow, rain, bright winter sun, I finally booked my test for 1st May, I was felt sick as I put my card details in, I wasn't ready, I couldn't do it, I just couldn't.

In the mean time I did lots of driving with Ian in my little go-kart of a Saxo (or Sexo as my friend and I, who also has one, have renamed our cars). I was confident in that, perhaps a little complacent at times but I just didn't think I could pass my test. 

I knew there was no reason I couldn't, there was every reason I could do it, but I couldn't let myself think I'd pass first time. I'd booked the day off work, I went for a drive with my instructor before the test, we practised manoeuvres (that really doesn't look right, spell check tells me it is), we talked through the "Show Me Tell Me" parts of the test and discussed why I probably shouldn't answer with "well that's why I married a mechanic" when asked anything complicated. I drove us to the test centre, I won't lie, I was absolutely shitting myself. I tried to tell myself it didn't matter if I failed but I knew deep down it would, I knew that if I failed I would be so very angry and disappointed. I also knew it would cost me another £100ish to retake my test and cost me another day of my annual leave. I'm hard on myself, I know this.

My legs shook the whole time I was driving, my parallel park was torturous, I forgot to indicate when turning onto a main road, I swore under my breath and dripped with sweat. We pulled into the test centre, he told me to make myself comfortable while he went through his sheet. I panicked, my heart beat too fast, I waited and waited.

"I'm pleased to tell you, you've passed" 

I nearly died, I asked him if I really had, I didn't believe I could but I had, he was really passing me. I have never been so bloody pleased in all of my life. I feel like a real independent grown up now, I have a car, I have a bit of paper that says I'm allowed to drive (my licence is on its way), I'm waiting to find out I've dreamt it.

*It's going anywhere it damn well wants to, apparently.

Not so internal monologue

I don't drive, well I do, I'm learning and so I'm not allowed to drive without supervision just yet which means I have to suffer the bus to work two out of every three weeks when I can't get a lift from Ian. The other day I happened to still have my iPod paused as I sat down and I really couldn't help but earwig on half of a conversation. 

There's a girl on the bus, she's in an anorak, hair scraped back, glasses on, her earphones are in, her phone is in her lap, she's talking non-stop, there's nobody next to her. For about 15 minutes of the bus journey she was seemingly suffering from a case of severe verbal diarrhoea and I couldn't concentrate on my book

You ignored what I said... You did

She's in trouble for not responding to a text now... 

My alarm goes off at 6, I woke up, changed it and went back to sleep. Didn't even acknowledge my texts, I just changed my alarm and went back to sleep. Babe I just changed my alarm. I'm sorry

I've text her saying I'm on the bus and she's not even acknowledged it 

The cheek! She's just been saying she hadn't read any texts and there she is complaining about someone ignoring her texts.

In between words she's sniffing, I can hear her despite my earphones being in (music off, obviously, I need to know what she's going to say next)

Yeah well you won't see me till Friday so let's hope you don't wake up with it on Sunday... But do you throw up? I get the bug but don't throw up, that's why my mum doesn't believe me, that's the problem with having a good immune system.

At this point the woman sitting in front of me started mouthing something to a woman on the outside of the bus. She was doing that thing where rather than speak you mouth the words in a really exaggerated fashion because that makes it more clear (it doesn't). 

Someone else speaks

I'm done in mate, done in

I can't distinguish any of the people any more, there's a low level of noise, nobody's conversation stands out now. I have no excuse not to be trying to plough my way through The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo so I put my iPod on random and leave the strangers all talking to themselves. Is it always like this on the bus?

What I live for

I know I've bored on about them a lot but I'm going to do it again. I fucking love this band and last Friday, as always, their live show didn't disappoint.  I've seen them a lot of times, it's funny, you get to recognise people in the crowd, they're almost always there, the rotund man with the sensible short back and sides and a shirt, always making "duhn nah nah" noises along with the guitars when there are no lyrics to sing along to. The tall boy with the long blond hair who we first saw at a Ginger acoustic show in Wales, the two men who look like each other, both long hair, one slightly smaller than the other, always there together. Then there's the man who looks like a portly teddy boy, he's always there too. It's nice to see these people, we don't speak to them but, you know, we nudge each other and say "look, there's that one..." when we spot them. Anyway, they were all there last week, of course they were, they're big fans too. 

Ordinarily when we go to gigs we arrive either during or after the support bands have been on but knowing Ginger always picks brilliant people we try and get there on time, we learnt this one year, after we almost missed out on the amazing all metal tribute to the Bee Gees, my life would not have been the same if I hadn't known of this band.

Anyway, Friday was no different in terms of brilliant support. We saw Baby Godzilla, a brilliant new band who spent a lot of the time stomping through the crowd while playing, it was really quite something. They were followed by the Eureka Machines, I'm ashamed to say I haven't heard them before but I loved what I heard, I'll be investing in their albums now. Then it was time for The Wildhearts, they were brilliant, especially considering they'd only rehearsed mere days before. The second half of their set was truly inspired, two of their roadies took to the stage, Dunc on the right, Steve on the left, each one held a sign with a different song name on, the crowd had to cheer for their favourite, whichever one got the most cheers the band would play. Some moments I was genuinely torn between the choices, other times I was dying to hear my favourite track.  I was genuinely gutted when it finished but today they've announced extra dates in June, they're playing Leeds the very night I'm going over that side of the Pennines to watch Europe's Strongest Man competition, I think it's fate, I have to go, don't I? 

The Mousetrap

On Saturday  we went off to the Liverpool Empire to see a matinee performance of The Mousetrap, the world's longest running play. I've wanted to see it for a long time and it didn't disappoint. By the way, whatever you do, don't look on Wikipedia to find out anything about it, there is a major spoiler on there. I won't divulge whodunnit, as with the play Ghost Stories, the audience are sworn to secrecy at the end of the performance so I'm keeping quiet. It's bloody brilliant though and if you get a chance you should definitely go and see it. Anyway, since I'm not going to give anything away I shall instead share the general theatre experience... I'd thought Ian and I might be some of the youngest people in there, we weren't far off that and most younger people were there accompanying what I assumed to be elderly relatives. Elderly relatives who, seemingly, all had coughs, throughout the entire performance people coughed, not so loud it ruined it but audibly enough that you could be aware of it, it drove me round the bend. Another thing that drove me round the bend was the man behind us, he talked non-stop before the play opened, despite his companion not really responding, not that she could have got a word in anyway, he barely stopped for a breath...

"When he was in Brushstrokes years ago he was a lot younger" - talking about the actor Karl Howman

"If you took a tumble you know very well you'd fall right down them" 

"I get vertigo on two steps"

Then he said something about the height of the cupboards in his kitchen (I can't get away from sodding kitchen cupboards, can I?) followed by "Mexican platter Tuesday, Indian stuff on Sunday" 

"When you think about it... the boxes, them two either side of the stage, if you sat in them, you wouldn't see a thing" 

"It's incredible, all the fancy work" - talking about the decorative ceiling

"I get the same nausea looking up as down" 

"I'm clinging on with my right hand trying to look at the ceiling" - you'd think perhaps if he felt that sick he might just not look up, surely?

Then, thankfully the play started, at which point the two people sitting on the end of our row decided to move somewhere else and the people sitting on the end of the man with vertigo's row decided to move to ours so then the rest of the people on their row moved along two seats. I honestly don't think the audience at a pantomime would be as annoying. They drank pre mixed cans in the interval, they'd brought plastic cups with them especially. At least he wasn't coughing, I suppose I ought to be grateful for that small mercy.

Incidentally, I accidentally look at this (don't look if you don't like mice) on Wikipedia when I was trying to find out if it was the longest running play in the UK or in the world. Mice are one thing I fear most, I did not need to see that page at all.

Not so much a review of a play, more a review of a man behind us, sorry about that...

My one true love

No, this is not about my husband, this is about a love which has been here long before he was around. It's been going on for 18 years, I still remember the first time, one afternoon in 1995, it was in my attic bedroom in the house I grew up in, I feel like it was a sunny day but I don't know if it was, perhaps that's my memory being clouded, I'm imagining it to be more than it was. I sound like a right twat now, I was Just in Lust...  and I have been ever since.

 Tonight The Wildhearts are on the Manchester leg of their 20th anniversary tour in honour of their Earth Vs. The Wildhearts album and I am so fucking excited about it.

Like smell, music dredges up so many memories for me, this is why I can't understand people who don't like music, for as long as I can remember I've loved music, I don't even know the last time I went a day without listening to something, singing along, dancing to it. Like the lady with rings on her fingers and bells on her toes, I have music wherever I go (doesn't quite work, does it?)

I'll be back with a sycophantic post about how amazing it was, no doubt...

Smells

They* say that smell is the strongest of the senses for bringing back memories of people and places and I can well believe this is true. Every time I catch a whiff of someone's perfume I am transported back to a hotel restaurant in Majorca about 25 years ago, clutching a bread roll, I have no idea what the perfume is and the memory is only fleeting, I remember very little else of that holiday but it's such a vivid vision. 

This morning on the bus I could smell something, I don't know what it was but there I was standing in my Aunty Dolly's back room, eating a choc ice that had that very distinct taste that comes only from being in an old lady's freezer for a long time (Jesus, old lady's freezer sounds like some kind of euphemism). I don't know what the smell is only that it takes me back there immediately. 

Almost as soon as that had faded something else caught my attention, I could smell my Dad's fishing tackle box (and again, this is honestly not a euphemism), I can see the box sitting in the corner of the garage, filled with all manner of paraphernalia, I have no idea what any of it is called, but I can see it, as clear as day. The smell isn't fishy, it's more like the smell of the sea but with musty undertones. Every now and then I smell that same smell when I'm in work, on the stairs. I don't think he's with me, watching over me because, I don't believe that, he's dead, that's it, he's gone, I know it's just the smell wafting in from the nearby river but it brings him to mind instantly.

Then there's a very specific smell that brings to mind the medicine cupboard in the kitchen of my Dad and Step-Mum's house, it smells nothing like medicines, it actually smells of spices, they were on the bottom shelf, the plasters, bandages and pills were on the shelf above but that doesn't seem to matter to my memory. Spices = medicines to me.

*I don't know who 'they' are but you know what I mean

Memories are made of this*

*I'm going to have this song stuck in my head all fucking day now...

It's funny how a little thing can trigger a memory but every afternoon when I change into my gym clothes I am reminded of my Dad, it's a very specific memory. I'm not suggesting my Dad was into wearing Lycra (though I wouldn't put it past him but that's a story for another time), it's the static noise as the fabric shifts that brings him to mind.

Many years ago my Dad called from his bedroom "Laura, come here, I've got something to show you..." I can see Social Services would be writing up some case notes if this was to happen now. So, into the bedroom I went, I stood in the doorway, it was dark, the curtains were drawn and the light was off, there was a rustling noise and then there were sparks "look at that" That's all static," he said as he peeled off his work jumper and flecks of light flew off his body. 

I am well aware of how dodgy this sounds, it really isn't. It's a fond memory of a good man who is no longer here. I may struggle to picture his face these days - they don't warn you about that, when someone dies - but I can vividly recall the amazement in his voice after his static discovery.

Happy people have no stories

I glance up from my book as he gets on the train. He perches on the seat, not quite facing forward, not quite sitting sideways. His suit is slightly too big for him, the shoulders stick out beyond his own, they're empty, there's nothing filling them. He's not wearing a tie but he is wearing a waistcoat, too formal for the office, the suit sits too badly on him, he's going to a funeral, he must be.

His eyes aren't concentrated on anything specific, they dart around the carriage, they never settle on one spot. 

He clutches a card, sealed in an envelope, it has no name on the front. I wonder if he's handing it to the bereaved, not sure how to address it he's left it blank. 

He rubs his face hard, I can't tell if it's to stop him crying or if he's trying to wake himself up and then he opens the envelope. He fumbles to tear it open, his thumb ripping at it. The last corner hasn't torn open and he wrenches it again and again trying to free the card. He gives in, he tears at the corner and opens the card. He doesn't want anyone to see, the front covered closely with the envelope, he reads it over and over, then carefully, never revealing the front of the card he puts it back into the envelope and rubs his face again.

My stop is approaching, he moves his legs so I can get past, I wait at the doors, he appears behind me, we leave the train, he is gone.