What I Do Not Do

For some reason the world seemed far more amusing when I had a pear pain au choc in front of me.

I'd be the first person to tell you I'm not overly smart. I do stupid things, have an impressive self-destruct instinct, and am repeatedly unable to explain my ill-thought out actions.

I do not ask Billy Boyd if he fancies a shag in Q&A sessions.

I do not push in queues.

I do not push in queues and then expect the man in the ticket booth to understand my random consonant sounds, even when spoken with a chinese accent.

I do not expect every train at every platform at Paddington station to be going to Penzance. I therefore do not ask every person on every platform (at Paddington station) if the closest train is going to Penzance.

I do not expect empty Lucosade bottles to stay standing when left on a table in a moving train.

I do not wear pink, and I do not complain about my wannabe mother-in-law whilst wearing that godawful colour

I do not have shouting fits on my mobile phone in the middle of a crowded carriage because I've just been fired. I do not then continue on to another conversation in order to participate in the development of a deep family rift with someone named Bianca because I scarpered from a property due to somebody else's rent arrears and imminent bailiff visits.

I do not attempt to jump out of the windows of trains whilst they are in motion pulling out of Reading station.

Sometimes I feel the need to disown my entire species.