Mr BC and I get on the train at Truro. Presently, a well-spoken lady comes up to where we are sitting.
WELL-SPOKEN LADY: (indicating seat next to Mr BC) Is this seat free?
MR BC: I think s-
FLORID GENTLEMAN: (having just arrived on the scene) No, that's my seat.
ME: (indicating seat next to me) This one's free.
WELL-SPOKEN LADY: (with evident disdain) Oh, I couldn't possibly sit there, back to the engine. I would be sick.
MR BC: Me too.
FLORID GENTLEMAN: Me too.
ME: (inwardly) Why, you shower of lily-livered weaklings, honestly. Look at me, I've clambered out of a river gorge in Africa in the beating hot sun, not to mention battled with killer flies* in the Venezuelan jungle and swum in the cold North Sea on New Year's Day, and you can't even contemplate sitting on a train looking backwards? What's the country coming to, I don't know, tut tut, blah blah blah....
Outwardly, I give the well-spoken lady a disapproving frown.
MR BC: That was Jenny Agutter.
Crikey. I wonder what the karmic retribution is for frowning at a National Treasure.
* Well, I *thought* they were killer flies. It was only after our guide had shouted 'No pican!' at me for about the 80th time that it dawned on me she wasn't shouting 'Run for your life!'** but in fact 'They don't bite!'.
** Or, more cryptically, 'No pecans!'.