Sometimes, and it is occasional, you see some great things on the bus home after a night out. One such moment of sheer unprecedented beauty struck me down on Tuesday night when, on the monotonous and unforgiving 142 on Oxford Road, a fur-coated girl came and sat in front of me. Nothing great about that I hear you cry, but it was what she did with her fingers that got me so hot under the collar.
Within 30 seconds of embarkment, she started drawing on the condensation riddled window. Oh, she's going to write her name, draw a heart or something, maybe one of those spikey 'S' shapes you used to do on school exercise books. In fact, she created a sweeping alpine vista - fingers for the moutains, nails for the hovering clouds, the tip of her index digit for a wandering meander trickling down onto the seat. There's a picture of her above, oddly voyeuristic of me I know, but maybe she'll get in touch.
Within 30 seconds of embarkment, she started drawing on the condensation riddled window. Oh, she's going to write her name, draw a heart or something, maybe one of those spikey 'S' shapes you used to do on school exercise books. In fact, she created a sweeping alpine vista - fingers for the moutains, nails for the hovering clouds, the tip of her index digit for a wandering meander trickling down onto the seat. There's a picture of her above, oddly voyeuristic of me I know, but maybe she'll get in touch.
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1 comment:
I like this.
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