Just a Friendly Little Cat (as the song goes)

Sock Monkey was actually stunned into slack jawed horror on Friday evening.

I was on my way home, sitting on the train minding my own business, looking forward to an evening of sitting on my behind and doing sod all after a week of doing pretty much the same thing during the day.

Sitting opposite me were two guys who I shall refer to as 'The World's Most Boring Couple'. They started talking about bread. Yes, Bread. Thankfully they had normal accents and not a Ken Livingstone-type of accent. That would have made me burst out laughing. Non-London people, Ken Livingstone, the ex-mayor of London sounds like Henry's Cat.

Boring Gay Man Wearing Glasses No. 1
"I had a lovely sandwich. It was chicken and pesto."

Boring Gay Man Wearing Glasses No. 2
"Ooh that sounds nice."

Boring Gay Man Wearing Glasses No. 1
"It was. And the bread was very moist. It kept the bread moist. Sometimes bread is dry but this was moist."

Boring Gay Man Wearing Glasses No. 2
"Bread isn't dry. You don't get dry bread."

Boring Gay Man Wearing Glasses No 1 appeared to demur at this point but didn't reply. Then Boring Gay Man Wearing Glasses No 2 started reading bits of crap out from the London Evening Standard. Have I ever mentioned that I would not use this rag as a toilet paper substitute due to its right-wing Daily Mail-esque slant? In fact I'd rather crap in my hands.

Anyway, so I've already learned about bread and the fact that it may or may not be dry, and now I'm learning crap from the Evening Standard. Just when I thought please someone rip off my ears the female person (female person as opposed to 'lady' because she certainly was not a lady. Actually 'slut' is probably a more accurate description), so 'The Slut' sitting behind me answered her mobile phone and this is the delightful conversation the entire carriage was subjected to: (actually it was only half a conversation because we couldn't hear the person at the other end of the phone. Thank God.)

Why are you phonin' me on my phone?
Why you phonin' me? Get off my phone.
Get your fax right. Get your fax right when you speak to me. Get off my phone.
I done sell m'pussy. I done sell m'pussy get your fax right.

- at this point Boring Gay Man Wearing Glasses no. 2 and I look up and catch each other's eyes. And we both are sporting a look of abject horror. The conversation continues, but even louder than before:

I done! sell m'pussy. An you had that abortion for Chad right.
I done need to sell m'pussy 'cause everyone wans it anyway.


We had 3 stations-worth of a conversation which was definitely not about a cat; all the way from Streatham Hill to Crystal Palace, where I got off the train. As I was leaving the carriage I could still hear her muttering to herself, "m'pussy, m'pussy" whilst huffing in indignation.

I would have much rather listened to more facts about bread whilst someone else was on the phone shouting, "Yes. Yes dear. I'm on the train. ON THE TRAIN! I'll be home in 10 minutes."

If the conversation had been about a cat, though, I think it would have looked like this।

And as I mentioned in the title here is a song about a Friendly Little Cat