It's Saturday morning, I'm at work and the denial is deeper than that experienced on Mondays. Saturday's just aren't meant for work, and quite frankly, even though it's easy money, my personal time is worth more.

I walked through the passages of Paddington station. I made my way up from the Bakerloo line, up the toothy escalators, through the urine colored, thick and fetid air, muttering under my breath, excusing myself from the other drones who are standing to the left. I don't know what's wrong with me, normal behaviour would be to launch into a rant and express my desire to wake them all up with a cattle-prod or any other appropriate CART (Commuter Attitude Readjustment Tool) - instead I let them go, I decide to stay calm and let it wash off me, St Christopher telling me to hang in there.

There's a trian waiting on my favorite platform, number 10. Nice and round, base 10, decimal, besides, it's right in front of the birth canal that just ejected me from the yellowing halls of the undergound. I'll tell you about the number 10 at some later point. I'm even happier because it's a Heathrow Express, comfortable and air-conditioned and it makes this morning easier to deal with. I take my place in the train, find my seat but there's a creature eating, Jesus, it's worse than the smell of Napalm in the morning, I imagine, and I wretch, have to move. Don't people know that you can't eat hamburgers and other assorted poison on a train. Once again, I let it go and decide to leave hamburger guy. I walk away and find another, empty carriage, I let it flow off me. St Christopher is hanging in there, relaying messages from St Francis de Sales to remain patient, there's a lot of energy to be spent elsewhere, don't waste it on the hamburger guy.

I seat myself, drink some water, last night left me in an interesting state and it's a small wonder I'm thirsty. I take out my book and begin to read, it's a short journey and I contemplate watching the world pass by instead. The usual blurb comes from the speaker in the carriage to please get my ticket ready for inspection. The blurb is repeated, again, and again and I don't feel like tearing it from its hinges, St Christopher and Francis are in collaboration, doing their best to keep me level, this is going to be a good day.

The conductor arrives, asks for my ticket which I produce. He pulls out his gadget, it looks like some kind of Geiger Counter. I hand him my card and watch as he scans it. I wait for the little green light to tell him that I'm a good citizin. I take my rides, I pay my tickets. The red light flashes and I realise that my ticket has expired. Mr Conductor sits in front of me and his posse follows, 3 more of them surround me as if I'm going to jump out of a fast moving train because my ticket's expired. He tells me there's a £20 penalty. It's my fault I tell him, I'm quite happy to pay but he keeps going on about what they do or don't accept, I'm not stupid but I'm not understanding. St Christopher is lurking in the shadows, St Francis de Sales, quivering in the corner, I'm alone with the Heathrow Express regulators. St Chris and Frank have forsaken me.

He asks how I want to pay, I hand him plastic and he makes the transaction. Hurry up I tell him, Ealing is a couple of minutes away and that's where I'm going. Don't worry he sais, I won't be going further than Ealing. So, the £20 penalty I've just paid does not include a ticket to ride? The more I look at him, the more his eyebrows turn to roaches, his face like that of a battered crab, the lenses of his eye glasses are the same color as the fetid, tepid air of the underground. His posse surround me, standing there with their arms folded as if they were bouncers outside a Soho club. They're speaking to me as if I'm a cheat, a petty thief who's stolen a ride and I bite my tongue, showing St Chris that he can stay in the shadows, oh, and tell St Frank to stay away, he's no good to me anymore. Turncoats, the pair of them.

Crabman pulls out a notepad, a battered old notepad and holds it out, as if he wants me to take it. I don't want to take it, look at it, who knows where it's been, Jesus. The corners dirty, the pages mattered and infested. He sais he wants my name and address. I turn to face the dark, adjust my eyes. I even call out, St Chris, Frank - are you there? My eyes adjust to the darkness and I see they've fled, jumped from the fast moving train. Bastards. I ask him what he wants my name and address for and he tells me that I've committed an offence, if this happens twice I can be prosecuted. I still don't understand the notepad, it's not a legal document, it's heresay. I tell him that could just as well write down that my name is Bob, Bob the builder, I live in cardboard box number 36, Kings Cross. He doesn't see my point and asks one of his heavies if they're OK after being abused. Now crabman is insinuating that I'm abusing them. He raises his voice, becoming more stern and not speaking to me as a good civilian anymore, now he's reciting standard responses and I feel the oil drain from my plumage. The water thrown on my back has seeped through. I've got a problem with the notepad. Why? I ask him, are you equiped with a Geiger Counter, a credit card machine, but when you want my details, you produce a piss-stained battered notepad and pen. I want to tell him to fuck off, leave me alone, I've paid my £20, now just fuck off. Why? I asked him. Why don't you have the proper tools to do your job? This is 2005, and you produce a notepad? He still doesn't see my point. I make him write down my name and address. He doesn't understand that he's just taken my bank details, that nothing will come from the information that he's just scratched down in his infested little book of doodles and shit. I watch him make the typos and I leave him with it and forgive him for he knows not what he does. His posse are still surrounding me, all for having an expired ticket.

Ealing rolls up and I'm escorted off the train, crabman gets off to make sure I make my way out of the station but I let it go. I let it go because I've got better things that occupy my thoughtspace right now