Getting off at Croydon

Emailed from my daughter’s phone this morning:

Am at St Pancras station. There is a young man beside me with his girlfriend. He is wearing cream coloured trousers and a linen jacket to match, with a cream cricket jumper ( the kind with coloured edging) and he has just put a bright new panama hat on his head to disguise the fact that all of his hair around the back and sides has been shaved off, leaving only enough dark purple hair to form a Mohican. The hat would have completed the believable disguise, were it not for the chunky, dark metal of the flesh holes in his ears.

I wonder if this day has been planned for some time, because he has obviously been cultivating an extinct style of military moustache.

He has just walked past me in the carriage. There is a handkerchief in his blazer pocket and he is wearing a cravat. The girlfriend is dressed in a similar style, with equal attention to detail, but beneath the perfect 1950s veneer, she too appears to be a Goth.

The train’s ultimate destination is Brighton. I don’t want to get off at Croydon.

Wish I had been there. I would love to know where they were going.

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