The Lady With Lego Hair, smoking her cigarette by the gate to the station platform leans against a No Smoking sign and blows smoke in its direction. As you walk past her she dares you to catch her eye. She wears a crisp loose fitting charcoal grey business suit and purple converse all-star high-tops. You think that if They were ever to cast a female Doctor Who They might use this look as a jumping off point. Her arm is in plaster, purple plaster, purple plaster that neatly compliments the high-tops- you think: this is a woman who despite her distracted air takes care with her appearance; you imagine her laying out clothes for the week on a Sunday evening and smile slightly to yourself.
Train arrives: you bustle on with elbows sharpened; you find a window seat facing the wrong way settle your shoulder bag between your feet and glance left to discover that the Lady With Lego Hair has sat next to you. You nervously chance a smile at her which she returns as she decisively pulls Guards, Guards out and starts reading. Pratchett, good choice, shows a sense of humour; you allow a private smile to spread across your face. You feel her presence the whole journey as you’re gently nudged against each other. She pulls her knees up and braces herself into an uncomfortable looking crouch against the seat in front. Marlene Dietrich swells in your ears as you rattle into darkness before Birmingham New Street.