A lady walks into a shop.
I head to the sleekly lit counter and go about my business – searching for a non-chemical mascara if you must know – and then, suddenly, something fluffy plunges fuzzily onto the faux wood floor. It makes that bones and fur in a heap noise that only a falling dog (or mammal?) can make. The dropper, made up to the nines as only a chihuahua owner can be, goes overdrive into guilty mwahmwahmwah mood. The little pooch – diamante jerkin and all – seems fine to me and, clocking the shop assistant’s raised eyebrow, I accidentally let a stifled giggle slip out.
They didn’t sell what I was after.
I then walk in a daze down the clogged tube steps and escalators and am so entranced by the enthusiastically gay swaggering bottom before me – not to mention the manicured aroma and elegant, floating handbag arm – that I miss my tube.
This does, however, give me the chance to witness one of the most spectacular falls I have seen on the TfL network. (Almost as impressive as the two drunken, middle-aged ladiez who on their way home to Essex caught a heel and dived hand-in-hand in a squealing mess along the central floor of Liverpool Street Station to rapturous applause.) A large green-jacketed man goes flying, utterly losing it in a belly down whooosh along the centre of the carriage as the tube staggeringly whirrs out of the station. I imagine his eyes at scuffed shoes level.
Arms go to reach him as my own hand flies to my impressed, laughing mouth.
And a little pic from my trip to India last month… Spot the monkey.