THE EMPRESS’ NEW CLOTHES

I shuffle in my seat, trying hard to concentrate on the wonderful book, Raptor Red, I am supposedly engrossed in. It is a tense and gripping part of the story, yet something is playing on my mind. There is something very odd about the woman sitting opposite me. I turn the page. "Raptor Red and her sister are just getting into a superb ambush position, hidden in deep reeds by a spring, when a head pops up abruptly a few yards away and stares at them. It’s a raptor head -" Do you think I ought to mention it to her? "The sisters realize that they aren’t the only pack trying to ambush the iguanadons" I mean it’s not exactly as if there’s a protocol for this sort of thing. What on Earth would I say? "There’s no noise. Neither pack wants to spook the iguanadons" Maybe she’s simply forgotten. Mind you, it’s not exactly the sort of thing you forget, is it? "Raptor Red is confused. Her sense of smell tells her that both new raptors are young males -" Lessee... keys... money... cigarettes... sunglasses... no I think that’s everything. No. Wait. I’ve forgotten something... Oh yeah... I forgot to put my knickers on.

The woman opposite me shuffles in her seat. She’s sitting with her legs slightly parted. She’s tall, thin, around thirty and blonde, wearing a tight white mini skirt. Basic Instinct for the dog-ugly. I only notice because I glance down to reach into my handbag for the bookmark. Is that...? No. Can’t be. Is. Yeuch - that’s not really on my top ten list of things I really want to see at 8.30 on a Monday morning. The full-bodied stink of sweaty businessmen, stale cigarette smoke and rotten food would be enough to nauseate even the non-hungover; and the unwelcome sight of barely-concealed strangers’ private parts does nothing to alleviate the gloom of another grim commuter train.

I turn the page. I mean, there isn’t any precedent for this sort of thing, is there? It’s polite and decent to go up to someone and discreetly mention that, for example, they are trailing a piece of loo roll on their stiletto heel. You can’t, on the other hand, go up to someone and say "Excuse me, Miss, but I just wanted to make sure that you are aware that you are, ahem, displaying your wares for all the world to see..."

I wonder where she’s going. Is she going to seduce her boss, or meet a lover? Has she just returned from a passionate encounter with a handsome stranger? Is she so terminally dim that she has genuinely forgotten to wear underwear? Maybe it’s an experiment to see how people will react. Perhaps it’s a deliberate attempt to embarrass her fellow commuters. Possibly, she’s insane, or just insanely bored. There’s a chance she does it all the time. Some women don’t wear bras, she doesn’t wear knickers. Bloody dangerous, I’d say, going around all naked like that in this day and age. It’s not 1969 any more. There are certain rules to observe...

Maybe it’s equal opportunities for flashers. All members of the community are welcome to indecently expose themselves. Maybe it’s a dare. Once my sister dared me to go on that really high slide at Wet ‘N’ Wild in Florida. I nearly did. Hardly the same thing, though is it? Going on a slide and going on a busy morning commuter train wearing a very short skirt and no underwear. Faced with little option, I turn the page stiffly and adopt the very British poker face. I put all my effort into reading. Even though I am sitting opposite someone who is patently quite mad. Oh - there’s my stop.

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