Chatterbox

A tall, slender, young black woman stands on the railway platform with two young black guys and a white, middle-aged bloke who never stops talking. His constant chatter is peppered with expressions such as ‘I’m not being racist like, but…’ that are only ever uttered by people who are, in fact, racist. Most of his attention is focussed on the young woman, who is beautiful, and at one point, he pulls her away from the others in order to ‘tell her something.’

He is oblivious to my irritated and incredulous looks, but the young men are not. One catches my eye and pulls a smiling face that tells me silently he knows where I’m coming from. I laugh. He laughs. The other guy laughs, too, and makes a yapping gesture with one hand. ‘Is he your teacher or something?’ I ask them.

‘No,’ one says, ‘We work for a charity and he’s our fundraising team leader.’

‘Oh.’ I say, ‘He doesn’t half go on a bit, doesn’t he?’

‘Yeah! He never stops talking.’ They reply, and laughingly tell me all about his most annoying behaviour and that they politely indulge him, taking refuge in ipods when it gets too much to bear. They have more patience than me – the man is clearly in love with the sound of his own voice and listens to nothing else. I wonder if he has any idea how he comes across.

As the train pulls in, he leads his group towards me but I’ve had enough and keep walking through the train. As I pass the two young men, they smile warmly and knowingly at me; we share an understanding and a joke. I smile back just as warmly, and am still chuckling when I take my seat in the next carriage.