Blog 141: Hold the phone. Or throw it against a wall.

As I write this, I've had so many issues with my phone in the last week, that I now know Virgin's full number off by heart. And not just the '789' one you do from your own phone. I could literally get hold of Virgin Mobile wherever I am, as long as there's a phone. The only other number I know that well is my Mum's. I couldn't even tell you my Dad's without looking it up, and I struggle with my own, but Virgin's? Easy. It's like someone got a branding iron with Virgin's full contact details, physically opened up the top half of my head, pressed the red-hot brand against my purple fleshy brain and left it there for a minute as it burnt itself into my memory. Except it's not like that, it's a lot worse than that, because if that was literally what happened, I wouldn't have had to sit on the phone listening to Pharrell singing for hours on end.

Clap along if you feel like a room without a roof. Clap along if you feel like happiness is the truth. Clap along if you know what happiness is to you. Clap along if you feel like that's what you wanna do. It's the last thing you wanna hear when you're already a bit wound up because, oh I don't know, you keep ringing some guy from Leeds who you knew ages ago because for some reason your phone has switched his with your brother's. The last thing you want to hear is a little, tiny man, who's pinched Elmer Fudd's hat (because, apparently, you can't be a musician without strange headgear) singing and dancing his way into your ears, smug right up to his tiny eyes because he's happy and he likes clapping, just because he feels like it, and is also somehow able to have actual empathy for rooms that have no roof on them, and thinks that these roofless rooms would also be happy instead of hugely depressed that they're not really a room if they're just four walls without a roof, and therefore more of a fence. Or a garden wall.

He looks just like I do when I'm suffering with hayfever.

If anyone wants to ring Virgin, I can help. Don't go to their website; you don't need to. I can tell you right now. 0845 6000 789. Call that number from any UK phone and you'll be listening to a repetition of the word happy over some musical backing in NO time. Go on. 0845 6000 789. Call them. Let's all queue up and wait for advice that doesn't solve anything, but makes it all worse instead.

Blog 140: Train of Thought

I've decided to start writing about my favourite people on the train. Every time I go into London there's pretty much at least one person acting strangely, or looking out of place, or having a cartoon face that makes me want to draw them. But drawing people looks really suspicious so I'll have to write instead. They say a picture is worth a thousand words but I draw quite fast, and so I should be able to write about people in a lot less words.

The Bottle Lady
This lady had a bottle with an inbuilt straw, but the straw was broken. She kept trying to drink her water but she just couldn't.

GTA Man
He looked like the main character from GTA 4, but sleeping like a baby. He must have been up late, robbing banks and stealing cars from recently beaten policemen. Awww. Then he woke up and saw me watching him and I feared for my life.

Mr. Scoot

This guy wasn't technically on a train, but he made me laugh so much that I had to put him in somewhere, and he was still on my way into London so I figured it would count. And I make up the rules anyway, it's my blog, so Mr. Scoot is here to stay.

There's a bizarre trend in London of fully grown men using scooters to get to work. And obviously, I get that it's quicker and easier than walking, so I can see why they're doing it, but it still doesn't look right when you get 50 year old men in suits whiz zing past on a kid's toy. It's always funny. But Mr. Scoot was even funnier. As I was walking in, from around the corner, came Mr. Scoot, flinging around the bend and clearly not in control of his scooter. Narrowly avoiding pedestrians, Mr. Scoot tried to keep a calm expression on his face, but it didn't quite work. He'd lost control of his scooter. After nearly crashing into me, he was flung in the direction of the globe theatre. I don't know if he arrived safely at work that day. I get the feeling he probably got dead that day.