Citylife

Stepping onto a tram, glad to be out of the rain, good, there are seats, for a change. Sitting down in a seat I make brief eye contact with a semi-startled looking man wearing an ill-fitting but exensive looking navy suit, flecked with dandruff, over priced mobile phone in his pudgy hand urgently pressing the seemingly too small keys with the urgency of a vietman field medic. "what is his life like?" I thought, "does he know how he is going to pay the rent this week?"

Holding onto one of the handrails, is a pretty girl, wearing too much make-up, trying to look "older" oh how the circle goes I think, as she loudly guffaws into her pink handset, much to the consternation of several passengers,their eyes seem to say "why are you laughing?" Does she not know, life is not for laughing, or making eye contact with strangers, or smiling to show off your expensive veneers, not at all, life is for looking too often and too anxiously at your phone to see has anyone acknowledged your existence in the last three minutes.

Oh this tram car has some serious people in it this morning alright, serious people, with seious lives, serious clothes, serious jobs, serious problems and a serious amount of dissapointment written on their faces every time they glance at their serious phones and realise that no-one else is taking them quite as seriously as they are themselves.

Serious paople wake up, drink instant coffee and pretend they like it, don't smoke even though they really want to, eat lot's of fruit, which makes them shit too much, and the skin sticks in their veneers, put on your designer clothes, look themselves up and down in a mirror, without of course making eye contact, lest they see their own despair. Rush to catch a tram to a job they hate, working with people they can;t stand, yet smile sickengly at their pathetic attempts at humour and pukey little stories about Timothy losing another tooth, aww bless, so long as you don't lose a veneer eh?

Endure the presence of some pretentious little pervert with bad breath who happens to be your boss, kiss his skinny little ass and guffaw all the way till your next cigerette break at his witless jokes. Who knows, maybe someday you will get to wear the gold name-badge which in this case reads "Nigel", but is usually a symbol of, to name but a few, bad breath, narcicissm, living with your mother until your 50 or she dies, whichever arrives first, prolongued bout's of erectile disfunction, an obsession with trains, and addiction to sub-way meal deals, in-human nose hair and an annoying habit of mysteriously appearing to use the toilet cubicle immediatly after I leave. Oh what a marvellous achievement that would be, definitely something to tell the grandkids.

When the long awaited fity minute lunch break arrives, join the cackling throng of hyena's and half wits