chopbics

Does it have a fork in there?

What?

Fork?

What?

Is there a fork? In the packet?

Late at night, in one of the convenience shops of Victoria Station, I am myself doing an impression of a fork for the benefit of another grown up human being.

It is late, and we both clearly don’t care anymore.

OH! He says, making a fork action in response to my interpretive fork.

Yes! I say.

No. He says.

Oh. I say.

There are seven minutes minutes, this evening, between arriving at the station and the train leaving for Brighton. I think we are in minute five.

Whats more: the train is leaving from a platform so far away it might as well be advertised as the healthy route to Brighton (were walking at least half way there, after all); also This isnt my normal line, so I have had cause to buy a ticket part way; and Im hungry. Im very hungry. On my person was the worlds tiniest amount of change.

In the worlds smoothest movement, I went straight for the ticket machines, found no line, got my adjoining ticket, segue seemlessly to the cash point, take out enough for somehting minor to nosh upon, locate a nosh-dispensary, do a circuit of the big train-convenience shop quick enough to not waste time but thorough enough to calculate the healthiest convenience food in the entire place, and now I find myself trying to pay. And procure cutlery.

Holding a plastic container of thai noodles with a chilli lemon dressing and grilled chicken, I am standing at the till. Having come down from third in line to pay, and not having a watch on me, I am getting nervous. The train could have gone, for all I know.

Do you have any forks at all?

What?

Behind the counter?

What?

Forks?

I pull my best fork pose. I look like a vogueing cactus. He looks under his till, his neighbouring till, along the back wall, shakes his head and looks at me anxiously.

I will go to other till and get a fork for you

Nono, I say.

It is fine.

He is not to worry.

I pay, and take my change, and thank him, and leave, running as fast as I can in heels (a mincing saunter).

________________

Ten minutes later, I am on the train.

Eating with my fingers would be rude, I know. I dont care, Id do it without a seconds pause, generally, but the Victoria to Brighton line is a bit posh.

Twenty minutes later I am happy and full. Well, fuller.

I watch as the man opposite taps something into his phone, and cannot help but wonder idly if he is twittering.

On late train. Sweaty girl opposite is improvising chopsticks with two unmatching biros. Technique passable, but concept wrong. Euw