Nelson Galaxy

Following a spate of near fatal pedestrian mishaps of the last week I decided to take the tube to work this morning. Recently, whilst striding along the busy streets of the ye olde London Town, I have been knocked down by a Post Office van and, yesterday, was hit full on by a cyclist who stormed straight through a red light. Cheers mate.

I now have bruises on my bruises. Taking the tube seems like the safer option. I mean, it’s not like I’m going to get blown up or anything, is it?

I saw on the news last evening that trials were being carried out for new and obvious signage in the carriages on the London Underground requesting that members of the public relinquish their seats for pregnant women. Gangs of child-laden ladies are roaming the Underground system checking to see if anyone is chivalrous enough to give them their seat. As a matter of course I will always do this but apparently most people do not. Silly buggers.

As the tube pulled out of Tower Hill station I spied what appeared to be a heavily pregnant woman standing near the door. “This is my chance to prove I am a good person and pass the Underground test at the same time,” I though. “After all, one good deed always leads to another.”

I walked over to the woman and pronounced in my calmest, kindliest voice, “Excuse me madam, I wish to proffer your good pregnant self with my nice comfortable seat. Take the weight off your feet because you look like you do not have long to go before your happiest of days.”

“What are you talking about nancy boy?” was her curt reply.
“I’m giving you my seat due to you being pregnant,” I said.

Her face squeezed into a tight pout and her eyes became tiny pinpricks in a squashed blubbery visage. She was sweating profusely and had a bright crimson shinny hue. She smelt faintly of haddock.

“I am not pregnant, I just like eating, t**t!”

As I sat back down, I realized that the whole carriage was looking at me in a snide and knowing way. I hung my head. I felt strangely aroused.