I’m a typical Londoner in many ways. My approach to life is relatively laid back, and I have a bit of a rep for being chilled to the point of irritation, but when it comes to public transport I revert to my roots and become excessively highly strung. If you stand in the middle of Victoria station, you can usually tell the difference between those of us who are genuine Londoners, and the imposters who clog up our wonderful transport system with their meandering.
The buzz of a London station, makes me feel at home – the Nigerian station guard who, like a stern Uncle, asks me why I did not purchase the correct ticket zone (he will let me through this once but never again), the Cockney accented train driver, the youth with his too-loud headphones. Ah, London. Amidst the business men in their suits, the tourists with their health hazard sized maps, and the out of tune busker, there is breed of animal that are usually best spotted from early June to late August..
The P.D.A couple.
While everyone else is en route to their home, place of work, or Buckingham Palace to stand in the rain and watch the changing of the guards, these two are blissfully unaware. They’re trapped in their own little world. A world of octopus hands and French kisses. A world of high pitched giggling and hair stroking. A world where gazing into each others eyes as they caress each other’s rear ends outside the disabled lift at Homerton, is perfectly acceptable.
I usually sit and watch these species, internally eye rolling, kissing my teeth and generally getting into an indignant huff about the whole sordid affair. What right have they to rub their relationship in my face? Why are they forcing their soft core porn on the general public? I mutter. “Have they no home training? Have they no dignity? Don’t they know that excessive public display of affection is a sign of a brewing narcissistic personality disorder? Why is he pulling on her weave, doesn’t he know how fragile Malaysian hair is, especially once it has been dyed honey-blonde-brown? Will somebody please think about the children???”. Until it dawned on me a few weeks back, that everyone hates public displays of affection until they’re in a relationship. Assuming the role of the enlightened singleton who would never lick someone’s neck in public because, thank you very much, you have consideration for other people’s peripheral vision and mental health, is easy enough – when you’re the enlightened singleton.
But then suddenly, one day, you find yourself in the middle of Victoria station, practically doing Vinyasa yoga poses with your significant other, and then it dawns on you that you’re turning into something you loathe. And then you realise that it’s early June. You look around. There is the sleep deprived business man, T.M Lewin shirt stained from his Upper Crust sandwich mustard. There is the Japanese tourist, giving passers by corneal abrasions with the corner of her laminated map. You hear the Cockney accented driver asking everyone to stand clear of the doors. The Nigerian station guard glowers at you.Oh, and there’s the youth with his too loud headphones. And then there’s you. You shrug. Oh well. we’re all a bit hypocritical at times. You continue with the neck licking.
STOP. CEASE. DESIST. RESIST. UNHAND YOUR DARLING WITH DISPATCH.
It doesn’t need to be this way. I have faith that there are couples who can resist the overwhelming urge to massage each other in public.
But most of you won’t listen to me. You’ll carry on canoodling, because you’re young (or at heart) and you’re in ‘love’ (but probably lust or infatuation). Because everyone hates P.D.A until they want to do P.D.A.
Do you hate P.D.A? Do you do P.D.A? Confess your sins.