Ah, the Weekenders

One of the pleasant aspects of riding the tube on a Saturday afternoon is that you don't have to watch beleaguered early-morning commuters putting on their make-up because they couldn't be arsed to get out of bed fifteen minutes earlier to do it in the privacy of their own bathrooms.

Of course, as with anything there is a trade-off. This afternoon I got a twofer. The first was the twenty-something bloke who quickly negated any cute points by sticking his finger up his nose and digging as if he were working towards a lobotomy. He then withdrew his digit to carefully examine whatever was now beneath his fingernail, twirl it around a bit with this thumb, wipe it on his jeans' leg and then dig again. All this while carrying on a conversation with his mate.

Meanwhile, the guy across from me unwrapped his bagel sandwich while trying to drink a bottle of Pret pomegranate juice. He dribbled a bit of juice, wiped most of it up off of his chin and then tucked into his sandwich. Some lettuce fell onto the seat between his legs. Undaunted, he picked the garnish up off the upholstered cushion (which clearly gets steam cleaned and disinfected every night) and plopped it into his mouth.

Waste not, want not.