TRAVELLING to work by train the other day, I noticed the ticket inspector, or Revenue Protection Officer as I am now informed they are called, heading down the carriage in my direction uttering his distinctive cry of tickets please.
My first thought was to fish my ticket out of my pocket in readiness, but then an intriguing idea occurred to me. So when he arrived alongside me, instead of finding my ticket and showing it to him, I did not move a muscle.
Tickets please, he said again, louder this time.
I turned slowly towards him, then said, I apologise for the late running of my ticket.
What? he said, though I believe I had enunciated my words perfectly clearly.
I apologise for the late running of my ticket, I repeated. When I receive further information regarding the delay, I shall be delighted to keep you informed.
You are required under the byelaws to show your ticket when requested to do so, he said.
My ticket, I informed him, is in my inside left pocket and can only be retrieved by my right arm, which is at present held at a red signal.
What do you mean, held at a red signal? he asked.
It is a metaphorical red signal, I explained. In fact, it is my left arm which, as you can see, is lying across my right arm preventing it from moving to my inside left pocket.
He stared at my arms for a few seconds, then asked if I was trying to be funny.
Heavens forfend, I said. Owing to an earlier failure of my left arm, my right arm is being delayed but should be moving shortly. Thank you for your patience.
Tickets please! he said impatiently, while emphasising the initial plosive consonants of the words.
May I remind you, I said without a trace of hostility, that if I am more than half an hour late in showing you my ticket, you may write to the Daily Express to register your indignation and demand 50 per cent of the fare. To change the subject for a moment though, did you know that part of the courtship behaviour of female sloths involves climbing to the top of a tree and advertising their presence and availability with a loud whistle-like cry which is always on the note of the D sharp above middle C. If its any other note, male sloths, which presumably all have perfect pitch, will not respond.
Fascinating, he said. Tickets please.
I have only one ticket, I said, unless you count the return, which I suspect is unnecessary right now.
Ticket please, he said, so I heaved a small sigh, moved my left arm, which freed my right arm, fished out my ticket and showed it to him.
After a cursory examination, he handed it back to me. Thank you for travelling with me, I said. Please remember to take your belongings, both personal and impersonal, with you when you leave the train, and we left it at that.
