November 19, 2007
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After shifting RoboFoot onto the train this evening (I only have to wear this thing for six weeks. That joke’s not going to get old before then, is it? Nah, thought not) and snaffling a seat, we were somewhere around New Cross when the guy by the window finished his thelondonpaper and offered it to me. I declined, but instantly got worried.
See, I’m a shoulder-reader. A next-seat-peeper. I’m scum and I will be first against the wall when the revolution comes. But I can’t help myself. I see words vaguely in my eyeline and I’m drawn to them, whether those words are a sage discussion of fiscal policy in the Times or (let’s face it, more likely) a fatuous bit of fluff about Prince Harry in the Metro or London Shite. I try to keep my eyes away. I try to look in another direction. But if I have nothing of my own to read and am, for once, not knackered enough to immediately fall asleep, I will read someone else’s paper.
Did the guy see me looking? Was he making a point, or just being polite? If I wear blinkers do you think it will help?