As I mentioned before, I was at a train station. To be more specific, I was at Wolverhampton train station, on my way to my girlfriend's halls of residence after a nine hour shift at work (at a cinema, in case you were wondering). It was around twenty to eleven. I was walking through the station's foyer area. It is much the same as the foyer area in many mid-sized modern stations. There are ticket booths, automatic ticket machines which give you a discount if you choose to travel with Virgin, a small branch of WH Smith's and a linoleum floor, patterned in nondescript shades of yellow and reddish-pink.
On this floor was a yellow cone to warn those passing through that it was wet, which incidentally, it wasn't. I barely noticed the cone as I walked past, more concerned with what I might eat when I get in than the possibility that I might slip and die at the train station. I had almost reached the red automatic doors when I heard a clattering noise. Not the train-like clatter of drums coming from my headphones, but the clatter of something falling over. I turned to see the wet floor sign sliding ironically across the linoleum. A quick look suggested the smirking young man with the gelled black hair was the most likely suspect. Minor distraction over, I turned back towards the doors.
'Yeah, I kicked it!'
This voice did not belong to the smirking youth. Again, I turned my head, this time to see a large, goatee-bearded, skin-headed man somewhere between his late thirties and mid forties. He looks as if he would probably play rugby with gorillas if rugby wasn't a posh nancy-boy's game, an prefers instead the more manly game of football hooliganism. Apparently he mistook my mild curiosity for disapproval. Smirk-boy is walking beside him, now struggling to stop himself from laughing.
Still not really interested, and at this stage not even entirely sure he was talking to me, I passed through the automatic doors. At this point he shouted again, and with the instinct of someone who has been shouted at many times (thanks to my years as a teenage rocker in Kingstanding) I knew instinctively that I was the intended target. The tone was threatening, but the actual words were obscured by my headphones. This, as I'm sure my tutor will point out, was a schoolboy error for an aspiring writer. Observation is the key to everything. If I was going to play heavily with poetic licence I would say that the words in the song at this point were 'I'll kick and scream or kneel and plead/ I'll fight like hell to hide that I've given up', but in truth I can't remember. It seems I've sacrificed part of a half decent anecdote to listen to a song which I wasn't even paying that much attention too. I digress.
I looked back at the man and made a shrugging gesture. One which I hoped would convey 'I don't really care if you kicked the cone, I just wanted to know what the noise was', but which I fear may have translated as 'you wanna go, I'm ready for you'.
I walked away from the train station with a vague feeling that I was being followed, but as far as I am aware the man and his smirking companion were actually just crossing the road behind me to get into one of the waiting black cabs.
Then I went to Asda, and saw Ainsley Harriot buying some things. Which will hopefully add some celebrity glitz to what has turned out to be a slightly rambling blog.