Since moving to the deeeep South, I travel by train. Much more convenient. No potential heart attacks due to road rage, and most importantly, a fraction of the cost of petrol.
And on the train you get to see all sorts. I’m not going to go into much detail, as that is another post. The type I want to talk about today is the ones who do the walk of shame the morning after the night before or the Monday after the weekend.
This morning I had a beauty. Guy. In his early twenties In his clubbing clothes. Reeks of old perfume, stale booze and stale clothes. Much more than the usual 5 o’clock shadow. Lekker dishevelled but, here’s the thing . . .
The look on his face was priceless. He looked like he had the weekend of his life. Like it was a shag fest of note. And that made me smile, even though I wanted to gag every time the wind blew his heady cocktail of weekend smells my way.
You get lots of these on the train. I haven’t seen any women in ballgowns or cocktail frocks, but there have been cases where the dress was definitely more last night than this morning. 🙂
It made me think back and try to remember if I had any walks of shame. Yup, there were lots! But not like you’re thinking. My walks of shame mostly involved being too blotto to make it home safely and crashing at a friend’s place, regaining consciousness round about 5-ish in the morning and rushing home to get done for work. Nothing exciting.
PS: Seeing as how this blog is about my son, I will keep it clean-ish. If you want to know about any real walks of shame, you’re going to have to wait for gin o’clock when one’s full of gin and more free with one’s speech!