Dear Messrs Slug and Zone Cab (or whatever your names are; your penmanship was so atrocious that I could barely make out the letters),
Was there really nothing better for you to do, while riding on the Mandurah train line, than to laboriously scratch your forgettable names into the glass? Over and over again?
Did you and your associates really have to vandalise the train windows and spoil our lovely views of the river? Less than two weeks after the train took its maiden voyage (or maiden roll or whatever it is trains take)?
Couldn't you have let us enjoy that new car feeling for a little longer?
Look, chaps, in the early AM, when I am standing in a packed train with someone's laptop bag digging into my spleen and someone else's deodorant-free underarm within inches of my face, the view is the only thing that keeps me from biting through my tongue.
How can I make you understand?
How about I scratch my name into your favourite sunnies on a regular basis?
Or perhaps I could follow you home and chip "Plurals do NOT end in Z!" into your bedroom window?
That would amuse me greatly, but you would probably just be confused.
Please stop.
No love at all,
A.
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On a side note, a few months ago a friend told me that he greatly admired the local transport company, because they replaced the glass windows in the trains every night, in order to discourage graffiti and ensure a pleasant ride for passengers.
Well, C, I am calling you out for telling porkies. No liqueur gift pack for you this birthday!