My now wife and I were returning home on a tube journey, passing time people watching. Workers going home, gangs of teenagers yelling and climbing all over each other, all sorts could be found underground.
It was hot and stinky as hell in our car, with no seats available, but not overly crowded. Someone rose to exit the carriage, replaced by a young, good looking couple who plonked down right in front of us. After a few seconds trying not to make eye contact, we couldn’t resist checking them out: remembering that we were once vital and sparkling. The guy looked like an indie rock champion, with shocks of shiny chestnut brown hair slipping over his James Dean eyebrows and Roman nose. Shirt unbuttoned, he was arm in armed with a Kate Middleton clone who had the same colour hair as her love. Big and billowy, it fell down past her midriff.
They had been drinking all day, grinding away in dirty London without a care in the world. Both acknowledged us with eyes that said “ yeah, we’ve been at the pub, so what.. “ We concurred with a slight nod and smile, not intruding anymore. Just when it all seemed so sterling and beautiful, we noticed their feet: they were both wearing flip flops exposing filthy, grimy and black feet! The two of them just couldn’t care less because they were young and in love.