The Britney of King’s Cross.

Occasionally I need to get to work at 8.30. It’s not too much of a hardship. But the last few times I’ve noticed a new character in my cast of fellow commuters: the Britney of King’s Cross.

The real Britney - before rehab/shaving/general loopiness.

The real Britney - before rehab/shaving/general loopiness.

Train timetables and habit collude to have me standing at exactly the same spot on the platform and at roughly the same time when aiming for an 8.30 start.

Amid the SuperDry jackets, the Diesel jeans, the pinstripe suits, the jean and jacket combos and the beauty clinic uniforms, one young woman stands apart. Or rather sits.

At precisely my spot on the platform, there she is, sitting and waiting. And dressed a bit like Britney 1.0 – you know, the pseudo-schoolgirl sort of look. Always the knee-high socks, short skirt and bright pink top, along with perilously bleached blonde hair.

I’m way past looking. I see her, but I’m not looking per se – though in a predominately grey/brown/black world, pink/white/flesh does tend to stand out.

But she’s there sitting on her own. I arrive, wait for a train and squeeze on board when space allows. And as it pulls away, there’s Britney, still sitting there. Waiting. For what, I wonder…

Sometimes it’s better not to know. The reason is no doubt extremely dull and unexciting. As with many things in life, the interest is in not knowing.

There. That was nearly deep wasn’t it. I’ll balance it out with another post about Duncan Norvelle soon, I promise.

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