Hugh Hamilton
The inside of the train was almost as bad as the outside. Nightmare combinations of colour vomited from the chairs surrounded by a menacing shade of mucas green. The green twisted and turned through the interior in an annoyingly uncomfortable way. And, of course, there were the usual suspects dressed in ripped rags or well-ironed suits. Ben and Hugh frantically searched for a seat which at least granted some spacial comfort from the bureaucrats with free newspapers tucket tightly under their noses. There was none. None except the one near the crazy guy. The crazy guy who de-shelled pistachios at an alarming rate and scattered them across the carridge floor. The one who for some strange reason had a pencil in his ear which he tapped at like a chisel with his pencil case. The one who would undoubtebly engage them in inane conversation as soon as they grew near. Conversations about the re-introduction of capital puishment and doctors appointments spoken in the ancient tongue of hobo gibberish.
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