Voulez vous coucher avec moi ce soir?

There are a few things that ensure I’m at my highest possible stress level: loud crisp eaters, screaming children and being surrounded by a lot of people when there’s no possible route of escape. Combine all of these things and you have me on the rush hour train home, in my personal hell.

Just to set the scene: there’s a guy stood next to me drinking a can of fosters painfully attempting  to be suave and hit on a clearly uninterested girl. Nearby there’s two lairy males, one of whom shouted: “it’s one of those situations where you don’t want to accidentally end up inside someone,” and I have a chick who keeps poking my arse with her handbag. My stress levels were at an all time high, I was ready to forget the whole thing and walk home, until I realise that I’m face to face, almost touching the most beautiful, French looking male. Actually he’s probably from Bolton or something but he was wearing a brown leather jacket, scarf and had cheekbones that were constructed by angels. If he’d spoken it would have ruined the image of a French model type who drinks at coffee shops alone and likes to frequent the local jazz club in his spare time for me.

There were a couple of issues bothering me, firstly: I was wearing dungarees 2 sizes too big for me, a winter coat and white pumps with red lipstick marks all over them: not my finest hour. Secondly, the girl stood on the other side of me who was quite possibly his girlfriend. Note to self, must not get too close, I am in no mood for a fight and cannot rock a black eye. Also, and most importantly, the two tampons sticking out of my bag, which shattered any shred of sex appeal and/or dignity I may have had left.

In future must remember a few key things: always dress for success, bring earphones and lock my tampons away in a box that screams: “I am an attractive female, have sex with me.”

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