More tales from the Number 3 bus

Please darling, keep the fine detail of your fathers' probate to yourself. The mobile phone at 7.20 am on the upstairs of the number 3 bus is just a tad too public to discuss such personal matter's. We really don't need to know. If that was not poor enough form on this elderly chap's behalf, my stomach churned when the next hapless idiot joined us on the upper deck and sat a row ahead.

This young man gave a blow by blow run down of his sexual antics from the night before to his listener on the other end of his phone. He said he was trying to find his way to a tube station, so that he could get into work from the poor young Lady's home. He was in high spirits and brimming with gossip from his office Christmas party.

She was probably still in her bed, or singing in the shower, with a smile on her face, remembering intimacies they had shared the night before and this morning (if what he had to say had any truth in it). And there he was,.... hatchet boy, telling all and sundry at work (and on the bus), betraying her confidence and describing the merits of Brazilian bikini waxing to any colleague who was available to listen at that time of the morning. I wanted to go and punch him on the nose, for all the women on the planet.

How can some men can be such cads? Listening to this was not a good way to start the day. I miss a nice latte. I must be suffering from caffeine withdrawals since my fat free diet commenced. I really could have given him a good talking to.

I took my Parker pen from my bag (don't you remember the add from the 1970's?... Perfect for signing cheques "to spend all of daddy's lovely money?" - I am showing my age now) wrote 'cad' (with a capital B) on a Post It note, and stuck it to his jacket, before making my way down the stairs. Juvenile of me? Yes. Deserved on his part? Most definitely.