Titillation on the 1004 to Fenchurch Street Station

That’s three times this has happened now. Why me? Where there? Why them?

For the past few months, I have suffered an affliction. A tragic, strange condition that impinges upon me only with a small locality.

This morning, like other, innocent mornings, between Limehouse and Fenchurch Street Stations, a usually innocuous stretch of rail-track, I spied from the dubious safety of my train carriage another naked man. Totally starkers.

This is the third time it has happened. And always at the same train line. Different men; different places, but always the same area, and I’m always on the train.

Thankfully, they are not.

It impossible not to look at a naked man. Your eye, like some masochistic, rogue organ, darts hungrily from peripheral view to all-consuming OMG there’s a naked man subsuming my entire vision within an instant. Your conscious is powerless to prevent its own temporary destruction.

Now, I fear, my eyes become excited whenever they reach the area. They begin their prowling, hopeful search for naked men. “This will distress our owner” say those malevolent bastards.

What is it with the men of Limehouse? Does it have a scorchio micro-climate? If so, why the hell isn’t there counter-balancing women? I have never seen a women perform a little East End dance of public nudity. Or perhaps my eyes discretely guide me away from such sights?

A friend claims that there’s a women homed near to where he lives, who stands in her bay window and four o’clock every day. Only, she seems to forget to dress above the waist on each occasion.

It is curious that she chose four o’clock. Maybe it was her post team-time treat?

In other news, India beat Bangladesh.