A Missed Opportunity/ A Confidence Boost

Have you ever had the feeling that you might have been able to connect with someone, but you only realise when the chance has passed you by?

I was on the tube this evening on my way home from a day out in Camden Town and King's Cross with Anna, a friend who I haven't seen face-to-face in something like four years (which is unbelieveable and disgraceful and I promise I won't let it happen again) when I noticed a guy snoozing to my opposite right in the carriage. I smiled to myself- he was quite good-looking in my books, and I found the hunched, dishevelled way he was snoozing in (the same form most travellers take when they fall asleep on the tube, in fact), sweet. Not being one to be a Miss Stare-y Stare-ason though (and remembering one creepy incident on the train once when a lady watched me doze very intently for seemingly the entire journey), I turned my attention to the various posters in the carriage.

A few stops later, with my internal monologue asking when it's the appropriate time to wake someone up in case they miss their stop even if you don't know what their stop is (and I'll admit with my curiosity getting the better of me), I looked back at Mr Sleepy*.

He was wide awake and staring right at me.

I looked away quickly, trying not to laugh- it's always awkward when you catch someone's eye on public transport, because this is London and you're supposed to avoid any interaction with your fellow commuter at all costs. All the same though I acknowledge that this is quite a tragic social state to be in, and I find it quite entertaining. I quickly put it out of my mind.

A little down the line though I got the heebie-jeebie feeling out of the corner of my eyes that I was being watched again. I quite firmly chose to ignore it; it's really easy to get into a glance-towards-glance-away match with someone on public transport, where one person wonders why the other is staring at them, whilst the other is thinking the exact same thing.

I forgot about it for a bit, but happened to look in Mr Sleepy's direction again (this time by accident- I promise). He was looking in my direction again, but quickly diverted his gaze as mine crossed his.

What was it this time? Did I have something in my teeth? Fluff in my hair? Had I smeared something on my face but not realised it or had my eyeliner melted halfway down my face in the humidity? (All of these have happened to me on the tube before, of course). I surreptitiouly flicked my phone out to check my reflection on the blank screen (because I didn't want to appear vain and actually get my compact mirror out). Nope, nothing. What was this guy's problem?

A bit later on in the journey after a bit more ignoring I cautiously, suspiciously looked around in his direction again, to find him almost pointedly staring at the door to the next carriage, away from me. Good, I thought, now I can continue my personal journey in peace.

Finally Mr Sleepy's stop came and it was time for him to step off. Instead of just getting up and exiting the door right next to him though, he crossed the carriage to go through the doors just past me. I didn't think much of it as he did- I do stupid things like that all the time- but I avoided looking up because I was feeling a little bit embarrassed by now (like a real Londoner, rather than the social semi-freak that I am).

As the doors closed behind him I allowed myself to look up one last time at Mr Sleepy- who I still conceded was good-looking- and found him watching me right back as he headed up the stairs and my train pulled away.

The penny dropped. Oh. Damn. If only I'd just smiled.

At least I can add this to the growing list of incidents involving the Y chromosome (since my ex knocking the confidence-stuffing out of me four times over, that is) that assure me that I'm not an utter troll. And to Mr Sleepy- in the unlikely event that you're reading this- I was the girl on the Northern Line to Edgware in the Totoro T-shirt with the long brown hair. Sorry I didn't twig- I'm smiling now to make up for it.

~Fin~

*Sometimes to pass the time I temporarily name my fellow passengers- the guy next to Mr Sleepy was Brighteyes because he had really striking eyes, the girl next to him Wondergirl Assassin because she was stunning, had really sleek black hair and looked like she could be a glamorous assassin, and the guy next to me was Mr I-Got-No-Strings because he'd fallen asleep in a completely slumped position also popular with train snoozers, like a puppet with all the strings cut.

Of Street Food and Melting Makeup...

True to form, my first tale of woe will be of one that only happened yesterday.

I was milling around in Camden Town yesterday evening, waiting for the precise moment to start walking to London Zoo for the summer Zoo Lates event (one thing about me- I hate, hate, hate to be late for appointments and meetups, often resulting in me being somewhere ridiculously early and then having to find ways of entertaining myself- thankfully easily done in Camden Town, on this occasion). I noticed it was getting a bit breezier now, so I put my cardigan on, but without buttoning up- it wasn't that chilly (trust me, this is a key bit of information for later).

Having grabbed some food from one of the stalls and found a nice bench to sit and eat at, I suddenly remembered that the shirt I had on was white- not a crisp white mind you, but white with grey pinstripes. White enough to make a bad impression of a messy eater, in any case. Noting my poor choice in food in terms of stain factor, I ate the fluorescently orange (and very delicious) sweet and sour chicken with utmost care, and for once, successfully.

Making a note of the time, I decided to touch my makeup up a bit, being forever conscious of my oily (and therefore shiny) skin type. I checked myself in my compact mirror. Alright, was my internal assessment, but a bit reflective around the nose and forehead area: better sort that out before I meet the guys. I fished out my trusty tube of Benefit The Porefessional primer from the depths of my bottomless bag (I always make a point of buying bags with TARDIS technology), unscrewed the lid and carefully squeezed a tiny blob onto the back of my hand.


At least, I intended to squeeze out a tiny blob.

What I actually squeezed out was a whole lot of runny mess, and all over myself: the primer had melted in the warm weather. Cursing, I hurriedly screwed the top back on and made that pose everyone does when suddenly covered with wet stuff (you know, the 'looking generally down at yourself in disbelief with your elbows at your sides but your forearms stuck out like an incredulous velociraptor' pose). It wasn't looking good- now my shirt was streaked with light peachy marks. Could be worse, I thought to myself, at least it's nowhere near as noticable as sweet and sour would have been. I managed to mop myself up well enough with some tissues, but couldn't help noting that I hadn't solved my shiny face problem yet. It occurred to me that I should have kneaded the tube before using it. Silly me! It had been in my bag for a while, after all. I picked the tube up again, and squished it around.

I didn't realise that, in my previous haphazard hurry, I hadn't screwed the top back on properly.

So here I was, shiny-faced and with primer makeup on practically every part of my body except for my face. A bit fed up now, I managed to smear a bit of the stuff straight from my shirt onto my face, re-mopped myself up as best I could, and decided it was time to get myself to the zoo.

I should have just kept walking, in hindsight. Instead, I stopped by a churros stall. I noticed they were doing large, filled churros instead of the traditional thin ones that you dip into chocolate, so I went to get one, deciding that it would cheer me up. And it did, for a while.

I got about halfway through it until it very quietly and very messily exploded.

Now thoroughly fed-up indeed, churro-less and looking like the posterchild for a Persil advert, I resigned myself to the fact that I'd now be meeting my friends looking utterly ridiculous. I whipped out some more tissues and started cleaning the sticky stuff from my bag, and as well as I could from my trousers. I sighed, preparing myself, and looked down to properly assess the state of my shirt, which was of course terrible.

It was then that I noticed why it had suddenly gotten breezy earlier.

The middle button of my shirt had been undone the entire time, exposing, in all its green and spotty glory, my bra.

Which was now also splattered with chocolate.