jeudi 1 avril His anorak was zipped right up to the top. I ruffled the fur spreading round the hairy rim of his hood. A broad smile dribbled down from the bottom of his gaping lips. "Can we go trainspotting again?" he asked.
Notebook: flesh-coloured, with feint-ruled lines.
mercredi 31 mars N and I huddled closer together on the top deck of the Routemaster. We sat at the red light for what seemed like forever, the throbbing engine below vibrating upwards through our stiff bodies.
"I've never ridden a big red workhorse before," he said.
"You may not be able to come this way for much longer if the Mayor has his wicked way."
The conductor approached with a low-slung clipper round his neck. N fiddled deep in his pocket, whipped out his Oyster, held it between thumb and forefinger, waved it around vigorously and the man quickly withdrew.
"Bet we need to wipe down the seats afterwards."
Notebook: 'RML 2430' scribbled in blue biro.
mardi 30 mars I couldn't resist N's request for a poke around down the Tube. He wanted to explore some disused shafts, and I was happy to agree. He fancied a scout round Victoria but I told him I preferred Wapping instead. Pale orange was always more my colour.
Once N had paid up front I let him penetrate the barriers and descend into the netherworld. He wanted to photograph some of the darker recesses down there, but the sight of a man in uniform reminded him that flashing was illegal. We stood waiting for the tell-tale sound of wind being expelled through the tunnel entrance. Eventually the long white tube slid into the platform. I waited for the doors to flap open, then N slid in behind. We were tightly packed together now, his arm forced roughly against my chest. I struggled for breath as the floor jolted forward. N was lost in some transport of delight. I closed my eyes - it would all be over in three minutes.
Notebook: slightly battered and dog-eared.
lundi 29 mars I agreed to meet up with rest of the gang on the concourse at Euston station. It's still the only place in the capital where you're guaranteed first class service by a Virgin.
We proceeded silently to the furthest tip of one of the platforms. Our beige rucksacks bobbed up and down in the sunlight. Everyone had brought sandwiches and a thermos. No need to pay platform prices when you can spread fishpaste at home.
N was hoping to catch one of those elusive Network Turbos, whereas I was there for the Pendolinos.
"Diesel multiple unit approaching"
"Freightliner 86605"
"Spirit of Chester, decoupling!"
Sometimes I think this is better than sex. Other times I just wonder what sex might be like.
Notebook: bulging with impenetrable digits.
dimanche 28 mars The people who have been 'outed' as me are not me. To them I apologise. The pages of "What Bus Monthly" and "Railway Gazette" have been buzzing with wild speculation for weeks. To them I say, I am not who you think I am. Acres of newsprint accuse me of being a publicity-seeking whore, which is of course only half true. Or so I'd like you to believe.
