Waiting for the coach to London...
- A girl-next-door looking girl with a grey puppy ambles by, complete with an affected dreamy gait, under the Sainsbury's sign that is adorned with pigeon feces. She is looking to see whether anyone is looking at her, especially the greased-up young men in the silver people carrier (I would guess that they have rented a New Forest cottage for a stag weekend. Booze and porn in a picturesque location, away from "The Citee"). But she is distracted when her cutesy, accessory puppy stops to eat something revolting and goopy from the gutter. She yoinks him away promptly. But it would appear that her chat-up ruse has worked, in a sense. Someone has finally noticed her and tries to strike up conversation! An elderly couple gab over her and the dog, as she wistfully watches the people carrier drive out of sight.
- A woman of about sixty in a long blue skirt, sandals, a white blouse under a pink cardi and greying blond hair tied in a low ponytail. She could be the mother of the puppy girl. She is carrying a wicker basket full of ye olde country flowers, and looks rather too quintessentially countrified. Much like a vicars wife in a Miss Marple novel, the flowers conjure the image of her rustically gathering her blooms in the garden of a thatched cottage. I should think it's more likely that she bought them in ye olde Waitrose. The whole effect, however, is somewhat ruined by the fact that she is engrossed in conversation with what looks alarmingly like a drunken tramp.
- A gaggle of cauliflower heads waiting for the coach. All bedecked in beige chinos and elasticated skirts, clutching their tickets and clucking in a frenzy. When the coach arrives, they surge forward and join ranks to strengthen their collective position in the queue. I loiter at the back of this gathering. It's the safest position for someone of my status, if there is one thing that cauliflower heads hate more than youth, it's a youth they suspect of trying to push in front of them in a queue. However, my careful positioning backfires. As the coach pulls up to park, it totally by-passes the queue and draws to a halt with the door directly in front of me. All the bobbly heads swivel in my direction, and I dare not turn around to witness the steely eyes I can feel boring through to my brain. Quick as a flash, a lady sporting a pair of very new looking, beige Birkenstocks and her daughter (who had previously bumped into me whilst hoiking up her bra) bustle around me to the side nearer the coach door, and stand so close to it that they are forced to move out of it's way as it opens. They cleverly manoeuvre this so as to push me behind them, into a definite second place. A freckly woman appears on my other side and feigns anxiety about where the coach is going (even though it is emblazoned, perfectly clearly, with the word "LONDON"). After she waggles her ticket in the air and asks the driver if he is going to "LONDON", she appears to believe that, having established personal relations with the driver (who replied "Yes" to her question), she is now far superior to everyone else, and pushes past Birkenstock-Lady, Bra-Daughter and myself, pipping us all to first place! Bravo! Well done you, Freckly Lady!
- As the coach makes it's way out of Ringwood, and the driver informs us that the toilet, located at the back of the coach, "...is for liquid purposes only."
