British people.

We're hilarious. 

As a race, a rule seems to have emerged among us over time that means we're not allowed to talk on public transport. Even when you're not in the quiet carriage on the train, you find yourself giving foul glares to the bloke on his phone at the end of the carriage going on and on and on about what he's having for tea that night. Mate, we don't care that you're having peas with it. Honestly. 

It's the one time we're even close to being rude, in our thoroughly British way of course. Lot's of huffing and puffing and bustling around. 

But I do think the silence rule has gone a bit too far. It means that if you ever are sat next to anyone and you attempt to start conversation in a friendly and neighbourly way, the recipient looks at you as though you are: a) a stalker, or b) about to axe them. 

I mean, I was on the train yesterday on the way back to Newcastle and I was at a table seat with two other people (which is difficult enough, what with the under-the-table foot-placement politics and all...), but then the train jolted forwards and someone's lunch from the overhead locker came flying out and hurtled down on top of us. And even as I made a timid "ooh" as a bottle of Sprite came plummeting down and cracked me soundly on the head, not a word. The bloke next to me calmly retrieved the sandwich from his crotch and put it on the table. Not a single word.

Good grief.

Monday's Faces

Quite a find I made today. I had an hour to kill between lectures so I found myself wandering up a narrow flight of stairs to a local antique shop and having a hunt around. There were was a fair brilliant range of trinkets and "objets" as my dad would say.

But the thing that caught my eye was a box of postcards and photographs labelled "subjects" for 25p each. Trying to stifle my excitement I asked the shopkeeper (who looked very dapper in a suit) if he could open the cabinet for me.

I spent the next half hour searching through the box of absolute treasure and beaming with happiness. Some had scribbled dates and places on the back, some had detailed descriptions in neat hand, others had nothing - allowing me the pleasure of imagining.

I bought 13 cards today and fully intend to go back for more soon. I tell you, looking at those black and white and sepia faces really bloomin cheered me up. And, as Mondays can often be fairly dour, I'll share a face a week with you. I hereby announce with great pleasure the first "Monday's Face":


No detail on the back other than the print "Carta Postala Italiana", but I like to think she was a dancer called Maria and she saved that sequin skirt for her dance sessions and nothing else.

I love the way she's stood so awkwardly and her face is slightly blurred with movement, as though she turned her head at the last minute - perhaps because she felt embarrassed in front of the camera. She's not got model looks, but I'll bet the only time she felt truly beautiful was when she was dancing.