Strangers on a train.
– You know I’m seventy-six, love (boasts the man with the lager can in his hand, gnarled, side-of-a-matchbox stubble, glasses, but certainly not looking his age).
She ignores him.
– You know I’m a gypsy, love, a real gypsy. I bet you never seen a real gypsy before.
She still ignores him. Maybe he’s a bit drunk, and somewhat racist against the Romani, who leave all their rubbish everywhere, he says.
– I’m going to Virginia Water, love. To see my boy. I haven’t seen him in five years. Five years!
– [Pause] It’s posh there, you know (ventures the woman).
– Eh?
He’d retired last week and now had some time to see his son.