"Even if I got rid of all my problems, I'd just go out and get new ones..."

Mini-Hitler
9:26 p.m. on 2005-03-04

He was a little short, and ugly, with long black hair slicked from the back of his head to the front with natually-formed grease. Stood behind the plasti-glass in the train station ticket booth and refused to serve a couple of girls concessionary tickets because they didn't hold an ID card.

Technically he might have been right, of course. But the girls looked barely fifteen, and even younger when they threw abuse in his face and stormed off.

The second guy, a business man, regular commuter, as he pointed out to Hitler when the man refused to accept his credit card. True, the card bore no signature - it's not uncommon for them to fade - but the usual thing to do would be to ask the customer for another card to verify the name. Not refuse to accept the card entirely, and then, when the man angrily tries to pay in cash, refuse to serve him entirely.

There were demands, refused, of "Give me your name!" and the threat of "I'll come back here with a camera and take your photo!"

I'd have thought the description: "Little, slimy guy, looked a bit like a frustrated Nazi," would have been sufficient.

I bought my ticket, nodded along to Hitler as he bemoaned his job and the rudeness of customers, and wondered when the world became so harrassed.

There's a woman on the train who I may turn into when I'm older. She's the classic "crazy cat lady," draped in oversized silk scarves of clashing patterns, face hidden behind saucer-like glasses, and hair gathered behind a bandana. I get on the train a stop before she gets off, usually accompanied by a friend, who, oddly, appears quite sane next to her.

But then, she always seems quite relaxed. Perhaps she's the sane one, and it's the angry businessman, the abusive teenager girls, and mini-Hitler that are the wacko ones.

Listening to: Depeche Mode "Bullet of a Gun"

Quote: "Romancing the alien priestess. How very 1967 of you."

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