The Woman Who Talked a Hole in the Train

We boarded the 09:05 from Waterloo full of optimism, crisps, and the smugness of people who had pre-booked their seats.

Then she arrived.

She sat four rows forward, but her voice sat everywhere. It perched on the luggage rack. It curled up under our table. It whispered in our ears like a gossiping mosquito with a megaphone.

For two solid hours, she told her life story to an unfortunate soul who only asked if he could take the window seat.

She took this as a sign of emotional readiness.

He took it as the beginning of the end.

She’d worked in shops. She’d had six jobs that “you wouldn’t believe.” Her cousin once nearly got on The Chase. She had strong views on bins, seagulls, and whether cheese dreams are legally binding.

At one point she said, “I’m not usually a talker.”

Reader, we wept.

We arrived Southsea. A couple got off. The bloke said: “doesn’t she ever shut the fuck up?”

Then wished us good luck for staying on the train with her. 

By the time we pulled into Portsmouth, I felt I knew her better than some of my relatives. If I hear her voice in my dreams tonight, I may finally crack and kick a lamppost.

But here’s the terrifying thing…

She got off too.

And she’s probably on the same catamaran.

Send help. Or earplugs.