Time to self indulge

Today I took the day off work. I decided yesterday after another quiet day in the office that someone else could answer the 5 calls I'll probably receive today, and the girls were happy to help out. These are the nicest people I've ever worked with. Tuesday one of them made the disasterous mistake of asking how I was, at which I promptly burst into tears. Later, another of the girls came over with a pot of flowers for my desk to cheer me up. It worked.

I feel like I've hardly had any time to myself this week, no time to let everything sink in. The mornings are the hardest when I wake up, usually after a dream involving him, and I slowly remember what's happened and that it's 7am and I have to get up - double trouble. Being at work surrounded by people I can have a laugh with has made me feel normal, but I just kept feeling like I need just a day to think things through on my own and react how I want, without worrying about having puffy eyes the next day or someone in the house or at work catching me being unhappy and trying to rectify it.

So last night I got in from work, watched Eastenders and then ran a bath with bubbles, candles, dimmed lights, a glass of wine and a gripping but easy to read book I'd picked up from a Camden charity shop earlier in the day. I went to bed early and slept through, waking up as usual at 7am, read some more, then going back to sleep until later on.

Today Facebook tells me that I've been tagged in photos he's put up. It's partly the memories these things evoke that makes me sad; the holidays, the nights out with friends, and partly the fact that I know there are other photos from the same set that he's left out, ones of me and him. I cry and a few minutes later, almost on cue, my phone rings with someone checking I'm ok.

Living at home, with a full time job and attentive friends, it's easy to forget that I need to have time to myself. Today I'm going to indulge myself so that I can have a good weekend and start next week afresh, get into my head that my life doesn't depend on someone elses any more.

But seeing as it's 1:15pm now, I should probably get up and get dressed. I'm single, not a student.

;-)

I have a simple request (/rant)

Spread the word and perhaps one beautiful, amazing, wonderous day I will be able to watch a film without people bloody chomping and feeding themselves left, right and centre around me.

Why cinemas still allow people to eat the noisiest, smelliest food imaginable within their confined spaces is absolutely beyond me. Seriously - be imaginative, cinemas! There must be some other way you can make money other than making people eat their weight in absolute crap the whole way through a film.

I know I've gone on about this before but I'll keep bloody going on about it until people either stop choosing to have their dinner of nachos and popcorn in front of a hundred other people all straining to enjoy a quiet moment on screen, or learn how to eat so it doesn't sound like a pack of bears devouring a particularly crunchy set of badger bones.

ARRRRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH

If you agree with my campaign against public munching in cinemas, please feel free to steal my really shit picture and promote to your hearts content. VIVA LA REVOLUTION!!!

"When I get to Warwick Avenue, meet me by the entrance of the tube"

Embankment (not Warwick Avenue) seems to be my tube station of choice at the moment; last week I met friends there twice, got heels caught in the bridge twice, and last night I went there again, but carefully hopped over the cracks in the pavement to avoid any shoe casualties.

As we hadn't spoken for 2 weeks, I was worried it was going to be awkward; but we slipped back into our easy way of getting along and making each other laugh, telling each other what we'd been up to and eventually getting onto the subject we needed to talk about. Us.

It was a freezing cold night and so we walked as we talked - up to the London Eye and back again, past the Oxo Tower, the Tate Gallery, over the Millenium Bridge where we stopped for a bit and were sad, over to St Pauls Cathedral, onto Fleet Street, past the Courts of Justice and then back up towards Embankment tube.

Even though I knew it was coming and even though we'd both separately come to the same conclusion over the last 2 weeks as to what we wanted; like the song says 'breaking up is hard to do', and last night saying goodbye at the tube station was even harder.

A while ago I saved this article from a supplement in The Observer, cut it out and kept it. Not sure why, I just thought I might need it some day. It might offer good advice to anyone else reading this who's going through a similar thing. The whole article is good, but not entirely relevant as the woman in question was going through a break up that was entirely one sided, whereas this one isn't. So I cut the bit out that applies to me, although I have the rest if anyone's interested. Anyway...

We take love and the loss of it ridiculously personally. Yet of all the emotions we inspire in people love is the one we are least able to take credit for. No one falls in love with something tangible. It won't be simply because we told a good joke, or shaved our legs, or read Turgenev in our teens. Love is surprising and arbitrary and that's why it's so terrifyingly tenuous. Trying to understand why it's suddenly being denied is patently impossible. There are tangible reasons why a person might be good at a certain job, none whatsoever for why they tie up our heartstrings. There are so many triggers for someone falling in love with us, and I'm not sure we can take credit for any of them.

Love is brutal, and that's a fact. It emerges from hiding when you least expect it and retreats faster than a flood. You can't tame it, control it, second guess it or reclaim it. So what to do while you're suffering withdrawals? My own recipe goes against popular wisdom. Don't act fine; let your chin down, wallow in the depths of despair. Heartbreak is the perfect excuse to go into seclusion. Instead of letting your girlfriends ease their own consciences by dragging you out in their wake, I'd close the door, put on a sad song and have a good weep. We're simple creatures, really. We can only stomach so much happiness - and the same goes for sorrow. Be melancholy, take to your bed, eat crisps, watch Love Story, refuse to take calls, gorge on chocolate, write letters you don't post, emails you don't send. You need to plumb the depths until you can't take another drop of self pity. Then suddenly something as incidental as a sunset will catch your eye, you before you know it you'll be out there, heart racing, ready to take the plunge all over again.

[edit: full artice here]

Dear Ronald, The first rule of customer service is...

Last Sunday evening I decided that rather than get dressed and drive to Blockbuster, I'd sit at my computer and rent a film off iTunes. I paid, started downloading, then to my HORROR and DISMAY, an error came up which said the file was corrupted. Did a few forum searches, turned out it's pretty common, so in the end I emailed Apple and asked for a refund. I have to admit I was impressed with the customer service over all, however, there is one detail they couldn't quite get right...

 

 

From: musicstore_mac_uk@apple.com [mailto:musicstore_mac_uk@apple.com]
Sent: 21 October 2008 00:38
To: joanna@myemail.com
Subject: Re: This movie never finished downloading


Dear Joanna,

I'm sorry to hear that "27 Dresses" did not download successfully. It looks
like it is still posted to your account and awaiting download, so you should
be able to restart the download by following these steps:

---blah blah blah--

 

Sincerely,

Sue
iTunes Store Customer Support
http://www.apple.com/support/itunes/ww/

-------------------------------------------------------------

 

 From: joanna@myemail.com
Sent: 21 October 2008
To: musicstore_mac_uk@apple.com [mailto:musicstore_mac_uk@apple.com]
Subject: Re: This movie never finished downloading

 

Hi Sue,

My ISP is BT and it's a DSL connection.

I tried the suggestions you gave many times and have also tried the other
suggestions found on forums, deleting the temporary files and restarting
the download, but it still stops at 850.0 MB and the error
message still pops up the download cannot be completed, parts of the file
seem to be corrupted (error 8008).

I'd be happy just to get a refund to be honest, seeing as the time I wanted
to watch this was last week and I haven't been able to. From looking at
forums it seems to be a common problem with iTunes rentals. I'll just avoid
them in future.

Jo

 

 ---------------------------------------

From: musicstore_mac_uk@apple.com [mailto:musicstore_mac_uk@apple.com]
Sent: 22 October 2008
To: joanna@myemail.com
Subject: Re: This movie never finished downloading

Hello Sure,

My name is Ronald and your request has been assigned to me.

I understand that you haven't been able to download your movie rental purchase of "27 Dresses".  I see that it is because of error 8008.   I'm sorry to learn that this movie did not meet the standard of quality you have come to expect from the iTunes Store.  I know how frustrating and disappointing this would be.  Not to worry, i will be happy to help you with this.

At your request, I have removed the movie from your downloads and have reversed the charge for the rental.

You will see a credit of £3.49 in three to five business days.  I have also submitted this movie rental file for investigation. The provider of this movie rental file will be contacted and notified of he possible corruption in the file so that they can correct it.  I apologize once again for the inconvenience and frustration that this has caused.

Also, I wanted to let you know that you might be receiving a survey from Apple shortly that pertains to the service that I provided you with this situation. I'd really appreciate the feedback if you have the time because I really want to make sure that my customers are at least satisfied with the service I provide, even if an issue is out of my hands.

If you have any further questions or concerns, please do not hesitate to reply to this email.  I will be happy to help.

It was a pleasure assisting you today Sue. Thank you for being such a valued iTunes customer and have a pleasant day.

Best Regards,

Ronald
iTunes Store Customer Support
California

---------------------------------------------------------

From: musicstore_mac_uk@apple.com [mailto:musicstore_mac_uk@apple.com]
Sent: 23 October 2008
To: joanna@myemail.com
Subject: Re: This movie never finished downloading

Hello Sue,

I am very sorry to bother you today but this is just a quick follow-up. I hope that you received my email letting you know that I had refunded your purchase of the movie rental "27 Dresses" and submitted the file for investigation so that the provider of the content could be contacted and informed of the error affecting downloads.  

Your satisfaction is very important to me and I just wanted to make sure you received this information.

If you have any further questions or concerns, please do not hesitate to reply to this email.  I will be happy to help you.

I wish you the best Sue, and hope you have a great week! Take care!

 

 

 

Ronald
iTunes Store Customer Support
California

Please Note: I work Sun-Thurs 6am to 3pm (PST)

Thank you for allowing me the opportunity to assist you.

 

---------------------------------------------------

From:joanna@myemail.com Sent: 21 October 2008 00:38
To: musicstore_mac_uk@apple.com [mailto:musicstore_mac_uk@apple.com]
Subject: Re: This movie never finished downloading

Hi Ronald,

 

I received your emails, thanks for sorting out the problem so quickly and with no fuss. I have found the Apple iTunes customer service to be very helpful. However, seeing as you asked, I do have one concern,  which is the fact that my name has mysteriously changed from "Joanna" to "Sue" within the course of the help process, scroll down to the first email and you will see it happen before your very eyes! This is despite me signing my name as "Jo", my email address being Joanna@myemail.com and the name "Joanna My-Secondname" coming up alongside it in most inboxes.

 

Don't worry about it though, usually when people get my name wrong they call me Joanne or Joe, and then I really kick off. So Sue makes a nice change.

 

Anyway, have a good weekend!

 

Jo

---------------------end------------------------------

 

 

And the saga continues....next week...will Jo's own mother get her name right?

Cold

I've been trying to think of inventive, entertaining and witty ways to tell you about my cold.

Unfortunately for you, this is all I can come up with.

I have a cold.

I'm tired, snotty and would rather be at home in bed.

My grand plan was to come in, check emails etc, then upon realising I am not needed, go home from work early and not come in tomorrow (my boss is away for the next two weeks anyway) but the minute I left my house this morning, I realised that I'd forgotten my keys.

For the last two minutes I've been prodding and twisting the blue squishy wrist rest in front of my keyboard, contemplating what the blue thing's made of.

Oh yeah. Last night I spotted Nicky Hambleton-Jones off the Channel 4 programme 10 Years Younger on South Bank. She walks funny. But then I walk funny too, my heels got trapped in the gaps between the slabs on Waterloo Bridge 3 times then twice again in the cobbles once I got to the other side. I'd like to blame the pavement or my choice of high heels, but I think I'll just blame Fearne Cotton for that and my cold, because I haven't blamed her for much lately.

Oh wait, hang on.....yep, I think I just bored myself.

I'm definitely more tired and bored than when I started this post about 45 mins ago.

I'll go now.

Jo says NO. No, No, No, NO.

I've lost count of the times my mother, a headteacher of a school for kids who enjoy throwing chairs instead of sitting on them, has tried to shoehorn me into a teaching career. It happens pretty much every time ye olde job discussion comes up, and the conversation always follows the same pattern. She'll ask if I'm enjoying my current work, I say "It'll do for now, but I'm not going to stay any longer than I need to, it's not what I want to do", and then she tells me what a great company it is, how well they look after their staff, the amazing reputation it has, that I'm at a high level and look at how much I'm earning. All this, of course, I already know because I work there. So I respond that yes, it is really good and I do think the people here are some of the nicest I've ever worked with, the social events are great, my director is really high up but above all, mum, I'm still a secretary and I still want to write for magazines instead (don't hold me to that).

 

[At this point she tells me about the time she worked in a biscuit factory, "Not every job has to be a career choice", but am I alone in thinking a career in biscuits is actually quite appealing? If it was making Party Rings at any rate. Missed opportunity there for her I reckon]

 

Anyway, so for a while she humours me with discussions about about what I could do and how I could get there, but I always know what it's leading up to. Then, as I'm clearing my plate away into the dishwasher, minutes from escaping out the door and into the night...it comes.

 

"Have you thought about teaching?"

 

She knows the answer. It's pretty hard not to have thought about the prospect of teaching when your mother, a teacher, suggests it at every available opportunity. It doesn't matter that she thinks I'd be able to inspire kids and make Pygmalion bearable, the fact is, teaching is no more appealing than being a secretary for the rest of my working life. In fact, last time I checked, secretaries didn't have to deal with screaming children, homework or the dreaded 'lesson plans' and there are infinitely more opportunities for nattering over a long, free, liquid lunch.

 

Oh sure, "look at all the holiday! 6 weeks off in the summer!" she argues, forgetting that I have lived with her for 24 years and know that teacher's holidays are about as relaxing as a hospital with a SARS outbreak and as expensive as one too, not to mention that when you're off, they're off...so when exactly do you get a break from those excitable little youngsters?

 

So on Saturday, I hit back. It was just weeks after our last 'why don't you teach' conversation which had exactly the same hypothesis, results and conclusion. Me and dad had already exchanged the "not again" glances across the table and he braced himself for the inevitable.

 

"Mum, it's a little bit like I talk...and you go LAH LAH LAH LAH LAH with your fingers in your ears. How many times? I have no interest in teaching. I don't want to go through years of teacher training. I don't want to relearn algebra. I don't want to spend my evenings putting ticks, crosses and smiley faces on pieces of paper and planning the next day's misery. You forget that before uni, I applied to do a primary school teaching course but then changed to English lit upon realising that I don't actually have the patience with children which seems to be a pretty integral part of the whole teaching children shebang. So NO, mum, NO. I have thought about it and NO, I don't want to teach the little ratbags. Not today, not tomorrow, never. Dad, can I have a lift into town now please."

 

And do you know what she said? After all that? After a full scale rant and no nonsense, unambiguous, negative, no, no no no, ?

 

"What about teaching in a college?"

 

This truly is a woman on a mission.

Tenuous link ahead

This is post number 401. I looked up 401 on wikipedia, because I had the vague idea that I'd once heard a detective or maybe it was a policeman (fictional, probably Colombo or Beverley Hills Cop, although I'd quite like to talk to a detective. One who carried a magnifying glass, like Sherlock Holmes or Miss Marple. Was Sherlock the one who solved the mystery of the theft which turned out to be an orangutan? or was that another detective? Arthur Conan Doyle. He was Sherlock, wasn't he?) say something like "Ok, I'm on the scene. What's the 401". Firstly can anyone confirm from that ramble if I am correct, or if I just made that whole thing up in my head? Secondly, actually - I think I did make that up. But anyway so I looked it up on Wikipedia and there was nothing linking the number 401 to any sort of 'procurement of information' type meaning, so I thought "Ah! 101!" and looked that up instead. Are you with me?

The entry had this quote which I remember (well I remember liking the idea) from George Orwell's 1984. I also learnt today that "Orwell named Room 101 after a conference room at BBC Broadcasting House where he used to sit through tedious meetings". Ha! Imagine that. Anyway, observe:

You asked me once, what was in Room 101. I told you that you knew the answer already. Everyone knows it. The thing that is in Room 101 is the worst thing in the world.

Today I'd like to put facebook into Room 101. Actually I wanted to put facebook into Room 101 earlier in the week and ever since I joined it really - because Facebook, as I have discussed before is the DEVIL.

Never is Facebook more of a devil when you know you shouldn't be on it. Never is facebook more of a hinderance when your relationship goes a bit Delhi-belly.

Never has being informed of everyone's movements been so frustrating. Never have I hated more the fact that it's so bloody observant and quick to report back, like a school snitch. Never has the lure of clicking around and being nosey, curiosity killing the cat repeatedly every minute that blue and white logo appears on the screen, been so strong.

Thankfully, I'm doing a good job of resisting the temptation of all that information and knowledge, just a few clicks away. I don't need it for my social arrangements having discovered that people do still talk on the phone, which is a relief.

But right now I just wish it into room 101. The mutual friends staring me in the face, the profile information, the photos, the status updates, the walls, the live feed, the whole lot.

Because never has avoiding it been so hard.

Not many moutains round here

This morning there was something big on my train. People stared, laughed, pointed, went wide eyed, some got off and tried another carriage to get away from it. I, however, running through the ticket gates as the train doors opened, saw this massive, huge great big thing get on, grinned and thought 'Now that's a carriage I need to be in' and hopped on after it.

"Hello Rufus!"

Rufus stared back at my manic, grinning face. The man with him said 'Ahh, we've seen you before, haven't we?' and I confirmed that yes, we had met before at Baker Street the previous week when I was waiting for the train, and no, I wasn't just some manic nutter with a penchant for random morning conversation. I turned my attention back to Rufus, who was looking particularly big and hairy today, although surprisingly dry, considering the rain.

As the train moved away, packed as usual, all eyes rested on the thing at our feet taking up most of the room. Some questions were asked, like "Is he going to get any bigger?", but most people just stared, waiting to see what he would do; surely being that size on such a cramped carriage, he's bound to kick off.

But no, Rufus just lay down, resting his head on some unsuspecting commuter's shoes, curled around the legs of another, closed his eyes and slept. Part of me considered if it would be appropriate to get down there with him, he seemed to have the right idea, but I made do with standing over him for the whole journey, just grinning at his massive face.



No doubt some people in the carriage were quite relieved when his owner started feeding him treats at every stop, thus keeping hunger at bay and minimising the chances of being Pyrenean mountain dog breakfast. But I like it. I love big dogs. I love them even more when they're doing something unusual, like wearing a hat, santa costume, glasses, dancing, or commuting to work. He goes into work like this every morning, and comes home in the rush hour too, big, imposing (at least a metre long lying down), white, fluffy and utterly harmless.

Pretty sure I was the only one who tried to engage him in conversation, though.

How to make it better

1. Keeping busy
This weekend was the Hoff's birthday and her parents were away, therefore even though I felt like sodding off into the land of naps and tears, I had no choice but to pull myself together and do something constructive. This involved a night out in Holborn on Saturday, where I got dressed up, danced with friends, got chatted up by a slightly weird bloke who wanted to know if he looked better with or without the fedora hat he was sporting (neither, I concluded) and lasted until 4am before climbing into a taxi and heading for bed. I also had the shortest yet most successful shopping trip ever, thanks to a brand new pair of....

2. Shoes
...which last week I talked myself out of on the basis that they cost way too much. Lying on the Hoff's sofa on Friday night, I declared "Hoff, I think I need to buy the shoes", at which point she decided that if I was going to buy my highly expensive shoes, she was going to do the same with the Pied e Terre beauties she'd seen the week before too. Off we trotted to Fenwicks in Brent Cross. "Can you not tell me how much they are, and just pop the receipt straight in the bag?" I said, before driving home less than 20 minutes later.

3. Phone
Was turned off and handed to a friend on Saturday night to prevent any D&T incidents.
Has also been used in abundance to call friends for advise and check blog comments on the move, they've acted as pick-me-ups when I was feeling low; your comments about all this are keeping me sane. And thank god for mobiles, as I've been trying to avoid...

4. Facebook
The little devil. Anyone who can resist a peek at this heap of shiz at a time like this deserves a massive bag of pick n mix. It's pretty much impossible to avoid, however I'm pleased to say the miserable statuses have been kept to a minimum.

And I haven't howled ONCE today.

Give my instinct a medal

Thanks for the comments on my last post. In hindsight my responses to them were a bit hasty, in that I implied that although I had the feeling that something was up, I felt semi-assured that the problem wasn't me.

After a very long, emotional conversation at the boyfriend's house last night, it turns out that, well, I was right...it kind of is me...or, us. At least he thinks it is...he's not sure. We need a 2 week break from communication to decide. (Usually me being this right about something is cause for celebration, this time: not so much).

I've never really delved into my relationship on my blog in the past, and I'm not about to start now for the reasons I've always had; that I never wanted him to read something second hand about how I'm feeling, I'd much rather tell him first. For the past 2 and a half years he's been my first port of call for any sort of upset, the first person I call at the end of the day (sometimes the start - everyone loves a wake up call), so I will no doubt be feeling a bit lost now that option has, temporarily, gone. I'm determined to keep busy, keep positive and override this feeling of utter nausea that washes over me whenever I think about the whole situation, however as anyone who has felt this way before knows, that's easier said than done.

>Last night he asked me if I was going to blog about it and I said I didn't know - but knowing there are so many people out there who can offer advice the way I've done for them in the past, and with the comments I got the other day, I feel like you deserve to know why I'm not feeling myself. I'm open to advice, or just an amusing email, or sod it, I was thinking I might set up a national campaign in my name ("Save the Jo from Dumpage" has a nice ring to it. It might take off. Badge, anyone?), so, you know, get stuck in.

Anyway, yeah. My contact lenses are fogging up now (bet you never thought they could do that) so I'm going to leave it there.

Bah. This feels really rubbish.

Instinct

I never really know whether to trust my instinct, because usually my instinct gets mixed up with big bad bouts of paranoia.

 

But last night I was struck by something that was definitely more instinct than paranoia; the feeling that comes when you know someone so well, you can tell instinctively that something's up.

 

I've been in a little hazy mess since, worrying and wondering, trying not to confuse instinct with reading too much into things, talking things through at 11:30pm last night with my sister, of all people, when I couldn't get to sleep.

 

This morning I was the girl on the train who started crying for absolutely no reason, who briefly stopped the conversation of the two girls next to and opposite me while they glanced (slightly confused I expect) in my direction, and then continued chatting. Luckily my sister was on hand with the mirror surface of her iPod so I could sort out my running mascara. It's times like that you thank god for the remote indifference of London commuters; I didn't want to cause a fuss, it's just I'd finished reading the Metro and there was nothing else to distract me from my thoughts.

 

Now I'm in work and although I hoped I would be busy, I'm not. Usually by the time I get in I'm famished and gobble down a bowl of crunchy nut cornflakes at my desk, but today I'm having to force myself to eat an apple. It's taken me half an hour to get all the way round it and about a minute to chew and swallow every mouthful.

 

I'm sure I'll find out later if my instinct deserves a medal, but until then I suppose I've just got to wait it out.

 

Goodtimes.

 

Everybody go to Brighton because it's cheap

I was out of the office on Thursday and Friday last week because the company decided to send 40 employees from my floor off to Brighton for a couple of days, all in the name of  that wonderful nugget of goodness: TEAM BUILDING.

 

Let's ignore the fact that I'm only a temporary member of the 'team', and that worming my arse onto the away day was simply in the interests of, err, filling my stomach with beautiful food, copious amounts of (free) alcohol, and getting a 5* room for the night. No, no, I got so much more out of it: namely a stick of rock and a MASSIVE, all encompassing hangover. On a scale of one to ten; ten being that time I tried to get across London and threw up into my mouth on the Piccadilly line platform, and one being that niggling headache I had at work once, this was a 7 on the hangover Richter scale. The early start meant I woke up still drunk, managed a buffet breakfast and kept it down. However, I pretty much felt like really mucky pants for the rest of the day.

 

That's ok though, because in addition to learning the names of allllll the people who I have awkward conversation in the kitchen with every day, I also found the one thing bound to make you feel better when your head's thumping, you feel like crap and are lamenting the decision to partake in shots of post-dinner Jager bombs. And that is having the company directors, associates and people generally more senior than you also feeling (and looking) like h'absolute crap; including one bloke who seemed to have a rather black eye following an ambiguous sounding "collision in his room". I think that means he fell over.

 

Seeing as everyone was in pretty much the same, knackered, queasy, headaching boat, there were no smart arses who did that irritating thing of going 'Oh, do you have a hangover? I FEEL FINE!'. That wouldn't have been a wise sentence with the cold, wet sea in such close proximity. However one bloke got chucked in the sea anyway, fully clothed, which is always amusing to watch. And point. And laugh at. Ha.

 

Oh yeah - I hadn't been to Brighton before, so was nothing short of amazed that the journey to the coast took less time and money than my daily commute to work. It came in at £6 there and back and took just 55 minutes; up against my £8 whatever, 1-hour-if-you're-lucky trip from NW London to Camden every day. I don't have a lot else to say today, apart from that's mental.

 

Also, one more highly related thing: if anyone in Melbourne, Australia wants to take me to their annual pig racing and diving (diving! I know!) competition next year, I'd be well up for that. Hmmm.

Sleeping with the lights and err, other people on...

As a follow up to this, I bring you the second installment of the Comfortable Places to Sleep series. I call this one:

"Another man's shoulder"

Thanks to the rest of the carriage for sharing in the amusement and the kind couple opposite who, after a little bit of goading and several re-takes, managed to get this prize winning photo.

Tube nappers...bringing commuters together.

How gay men ever got a reputation for being bitchy, I'll never know.