So yesterday I was coming home from work via a rail-replacement bus, which added to the journey time considerably. A long trip on a bus through tight streets and a few winding roads is not at all like a straight-forward train ride, and I dare say, combined with my early start (to catch the bus in the morning) and a busy day at work, I felt very tired and even a little rough.
So I can’t say I’m too grateful to the man sitting behind me who felt the need to spit several times, loudly and with as many theatrics as possible. The coughing is something I can tolerate, since sometimes you can’t control a cough and I understand that, but deliberately spitting, hocking up over and over again, is just disgusting.
He was crushing something metallic – possibly several somethings – too, perhaps beer cans though I didn’t turn around to look. The final leg of the journey seemed to last forever, and I found myself starting to feel quite queasy by the end. The man was muttering away as well, about what I wasn’t altogether sure, and I wasn’t about to ask, as I was too busy concentrating on keeping my lunch in my stomach.
I’m struggling to think of what could have motivated this man to carry out such a revolting course of action – the only explanation I have is that the man was indeed drunk.