From the corner of her eye she watched the man as he made several attempts to put his bag in the overhead rack, gave up, and squeezed it into the space between the seats. She could see beads of sweat appearing on his forehead. 

She raised her book so that he could not miss the title:  “How to Get Ahead in Business Without a Penis.”  It was usually sufficient to discourage small talk.

Laughing quietly, he said, ‘I thought MY baggage was onerous.’

 “It’s society’s baggage, not mine,” she fired back. Who did he think he was?

His eyebrow arched, he looked away with a straight face, unfolded the Metro to expose the crossword, and started to study it.

Should she sit there holding the book up until London? Or should she wait a few more minutes and then put it down? If he asked for her help with that puzzle it would be intensely irritating. She settled for holding the book open, keeping her place with her thumb, and laying it on her lap, closing her eyes and pretending to snooze. 

‘Found on the bottom of a parrot’s cage: something, something, I,T,’ he muttered, wrestling with a clue. “Can’t be, can it?… Hmmm. Well, OK then.” 

Suddenly it came to him. ‘Ahhh! No! … GRIT!… Ha!  Pass me the rubber, Vicar,’ he laughed.

Despite herself, she found this puerile joke funny, and could not help an inward snigger. After regaining composure, she opened her eyes slightly and saw that he was fast asleep, with the newspaper slipping off his pin-striped knees.

She looked out of the window until they reached Battersea Power Station.

They were pulling it down.  Progress, she supposed.