This afternoon I found myself on a train. With other people. Which sucks. As previously established, I’m not very good at trains.
Sitting directly behind me was a mother, who I’m sure was a teenager in the 90’s, and her three children. The eldest, a girl that couldn’t have been more than ten or eleven, kept singing a single line from Aqua’s Cartoon Heroes. Over and over again. Very loudly.
I’ve always had an unnatural fear of sitting next to attractive women on public transport. It doesn’t matter if it’s a bus, tram, train, ferry, plane or Heli-carrier; I feel slightly uneasy whenever I sit next to a pretty girl. This fear has absolutely nothing to do with a lack of confidence or some form of general social anxiety and more to do with the fact that I suspect pretty girls know they’re pretty.
Since the dawn of mankind we as a species have continued to develop our ability to communicate. Ever since our progenitors discovered they could grunt to convey ideas, we’ve created new means to get a message from our brain and into the brains of others.
From these first tentative steps toward peak communication, from grunts and smoke signals to pigeons, from Maritime flags and sign language to the culture shifting Alexander Graham Bell invention, all the way through to the modern marvel of interconnected satellite computer webs, we have strived to open our channels of communication for the betterment of our planetary society.
A sharply dressed man with a copy of “Uncut” leaves his table to make his way to the bathroom while a table full of tattooed men and eager women laugh effortlessly at an unheard joke… A businessman shifts awkwardly in his skin as he orders another wine… Two less than subtle women in skirts far too short talk far too loudly about an unfortunate, unseen man… A flock of schoolgirls move aside to let a man wearing shabby clothing move through their throng, then giggle malevolently amongst themselves… The city stoically ignores the commotion.