Danish Pastries

Two devastating blondes board the train. They sit adjacent to us and chat to one another happily. Admiring glances are angled at them from the length of the compartment.

My day-dirty hair is being used as a prop by my big, fat baby. He is hollering in my ear and rubbing half-chewed dates into my already crumpled blouse. It is hard to imagine feeling or, indeed, looking less glamorous.

The bombshells catch his eye and he gives them his most disarming grin. And dribbles down my neck. I feel it trickle into my bra. They coo at him and reach for his chubby little hands.

The trolley wends its way bumpily down the aisle, stops by me and I order some ridiculously over-priced and revolting coffee - anything to stay awake. And to kill time.

It is the vixens' turn. The trolley attendant leans over them attentively.

In their most beautiful accents, they ask for coffee and a croissant each. But there is only one left. He offers them an alternative :

"You could 'ave a Danish?"

They collapse into uncontainable fits of giggles. I've already got the joke, but the attendant is clearly flummoxed.

"We are Danish", titters the lovely nearest me, by way of explanation.

He still hasn't got it.

"Well, it won't be as good as the ones you get at home".

I sigh and turn back to my little round ball of damp havoc.

Well, that's killed five minutes.