Big Girls don't cry...

They get even.

Due to the boo-hiss-ness of the "death of the Kia" {cue appropriately sombre music}, I once again availed of the train to London this morning at almost noon o'clock. I had woken up at something ugly like 2:53 am, for no apparent reason, other than Jesus? He clearly doesn't love me. And also? This starting work at 6 am lark is conspiring to alter my internal alarm clock, which is happy to go off sometime around 7 pm. This information actually isn't really pertinent, save for the fact that despite the 2.5 hour journey and the opportunity for sleep that it provided, I was desperately trying to stay conscious. Because? With my luck? I would fall asleep somewhere around Cow-Poo-Ville {which Boy informs me is called Ingersoll} & snooze right through to Windsor.

Anyhow.

I was a-minding my own business, reading a novel, listening to some music & aimlessly gazing out the window at the fields of green. I foolishly ordered a cup of tea {I never learn} & once again, narrowly avoided scalding myself due to all the bumpies that started around St. Mary's. There was a middle-aged couple sitting across from me, & as I'm inclined to do when I'm bored, I decided to people-watch. He was thin & mustached & jokey, content to complete his crossword puzzle and eat a scrumptious looking blueberry muffin that I had to physically restrain myself from snatching out of his fingers. She, on the other hand. Oh, She. If "Unhappy" went missing, her face would be on the milk cartons. She was, ummm, large. In the no-neck, boobs-resting-on-knees, looks-like-she-was-smuggling-a-third-world-nation-in-her-pantaloons, kind of large.

Not that there's anything wrong with that.

It was the fact that when I smiled and asked them for the time, & her husband answered me, she glared at me. And kind of snarled. And then! When a very polite small child, sitting in the seat in front of her, exclaimed in delight to his father, "A moo cow, daddy! A moo cow!", she gave him a look that comperatively would have made Cruella da Ville look like a supporter of PETA. She kept blowing her nose, which sounded like an elephant with the trots, & THEN! Dropped the Kleenexes on the floor!!!!!

So, all around, not someone I wanted to give a great big hug to.

Finally, the train pulled into London, as the rain spitooned off the windows and I stood up, with my headphones on {but this is key: the music was OFF as I had been listening out for the conductor's station announcement}, & went to walk down the aisle to collect my overnight bag.

As I proceeded to walk past her, she turned to her husband & said, loudly:

"I don't think her tits are real".

And then stared right at the Girls.

The fucking audacity. And also? A woman my mom's age just said the word "tits". It would have been classier to say "fun-bags".

*sighs*

And so I replied:

"As real as your belly, bitch".

And head up high, walked off the train.

Cause nobody puts Boobies in the corner.