Day trippers

If I was in any doubt of the wisdom of volunteering to work on the bank holidays (and choosing, therefore, to spend the sunniest days of the year so far at my grey desk in an office far far away from the four-day sunny beach extravaganza of Brighton Bank Holiday) my doubt ended when I got home.

I walked out of the station and was faced with a marauding horde – quite literally, a Marauding Horde, Im sure there would have been vikings in there if Id had time to focus – of day-trippers surging up the hill toward me.

It was like all the stupidest people in the world had challenged all the ugliest people in the world to a race, and all the drunkest people in the world had decided to join in for a laugh, and I was standing at the finish line watching them all rumble toward me.

I pinched myself to check it wasnt a dream – I had a dream about being in a high speed chase in a world made of lego during my mid-headcold-nap yesterday, and it was quite like that but better (and weirdly a bit sexual) – but four small quite ugly toddlers running headstrong into my knees told me it wasnt, so I tried to sidestep the horde and stepped in some horde-sick.

As I scraped the sick off my boot, some ugly parents scooped their Im-sorry-but-somones-got-to-say-it unattractive toddlers up, nipping back into the race with all the stupid people, running for the trains back to the city, in a please-jesus-dont-look-at-the-camera photo finish.

I couldnt look, and dipped my heel in a puddle. Whoever won, looks like it wasnt the drunks.