I’m a magnet for inebriated men, apparently. Tonight two such men got on the train and out of all the empty seats available, naturally chose the ones right next to me. They weren’t scary-drunk, just annoying-drunk. Like when your uncle gets drunk at a Christmas party.
But I still had to endure a 15-minute journey, staring out of the window to avoid eye contact with a toothless old man slurring, “Is your name Jimmy? Is it? Aren’t you talking to me?”
My name’s not Jimmy.