Tuesday 200 - #64
They boarded the tube at Bond Street, engaged in conversation. Two middle-aged muffin-topped matrons, bearing High Street shopping bags. Pushing into the carriage, the listener plopped down next to me. The chat-euse swept up a Metro and tossed it behind the primly dressed old woman across from me, squeezing herself in without missing a syllable, not noting her parcels now rested upon her seatmate’s shoes.
Fuh fah, ne pas fuh fah.
As the train picked up speed its rumble grew louder. Undaunted, the woman raised her voice to match the roar of the Underground, nearly shouting to her friend across the carriage.
FUH FAH, FUH FUH FAH, she bellowed on.
Bounding up but balanced on her walking stick, the dowager exploded, "Taisez-vous! On s’en fout de vos problèmes! No wonder your husband slept with your babysitter. Have you seen yourself? Margaret Thatcher would be more appealing.”
As the train began to slow, passengers around me stifled smiles. A disembodied voice murmured Holborn approached.
“And consider a douche,” said the septuagenarian.
“Begging your pardon, madame, I shower each morning.”
“Begging *your* pardon, madame,” she said, waving her gloved hand in front of her face. “I’m speaking in English.”
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