Commuting Has Its Compensations

What a life,

Thrusting the last of the egg-and-bacon breakfast down your throat, you hurl yourself out of the house.

The little woman calls after you, telling you not to forget to bring home a pound of carrots. You pound along to the station, doing up your shirt and knotting your tie, and when you arrive red right up to your ears and panting like a long-distance runner well above sea level, the train’s in.

You hurl yourself into the nearest compartment and get bunged out again by boxed-in commuters. You find another one, the train pulls out with you only half in, and then compensation for all the worry and strain shows itself in the shape of an utterly sweet dolly.

Her name is PENNY WINTERS, commuter from Brighton to London. What an enchantment. What a figure 39-23-36 lovely. You forget everything that’s a worry to you, you relax and enjoy the view. Is she actually going to speak to you? Yes? No? Oh joy— yes.

“Pardon me,” she says, “but I think you must have left home in a hurry—your shirt’s hanging out.”

What a life. The compartment full of ill-bred oafs laughing their heads off. And you with the tail of your shirt out.

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