London drowning.

Flood words.

The platform to London is the standard Saturday Cotswolds crowd.

Stout men in cricket club gilets with their teenage sons, also wearing gilets.

A chic femme d’un certain âge in ankle-length mink coat and leopard print ballet pumps, clutching a Louis Vuitton carrier.

A guy with a nose ring and neck tats, drinking a can of cider, complaining to his missus about his teenage sons.

“My music is like the Sound of Music compared to what they listen to.” Said around a swig of Bulmers.

There’s a kerfuffle. A line of people held up behind a pregnant woman.

She politely, and in a British “I’m-sorry-there-must-be-some-mistake” kind of way, pointed out that someone—a white middle-aged male someone—was in her seat.

He didn’t move. Put on his glasses, asked to see her ticket.

Only when it was established beyond a shadow of a doubt to the entire carriage that he was definitely in her seat did he grudgingly shift to a seat opposite me.

After a minute, I realised he was staring at me with frank hostility.

“…