Pants

Well it's another long night for me as the insomnia is taking over my life again. So what better way to while away the wee small hours that write drivel for your personal edification? But not just my own drivel: this is overheard drivel.

I'm not a fan of mobile phones. A Luddite at heart, I object to this constant need to be talking to someone who's not in front of you. When I'm sat on the bus I want to hear the screech of bicycle tyres as they go under the front wheels, not the inane conversations of 30 people all telling someone who's not on the bus a) what they will eat for tea, and b) how long the bus is taking, particularly now it's going to have to stop and clean the cyclist off its wheels.

Still, this particular overheard conversation was a gem, and I have tried to reproduce it here for your enjoyment. For maximum effect please try to read it in its original South Wales accent.

The speaker is a young male, early twenties. Quite good-looking (I don't want you to stereotype him in your head). Let's call him Gareth. We pick up the action after 10 minutes of discussion, mainly about what Gareth will have for tea ('Chicken Kiev tonight. I eat chicken most nights. No, I'm not really a casserole person') and how long the bus is taking ('no, it's not too bad at this time, as long as I leave work at quarter to five it's OK, otherwise I may as well just leave it till 6). He is talking to a female, probably his mother or his girlfriend. Lucky woman.

'So I'm coming home at the weekend, and what I really need is some socks...no, I've got plenty of pants, it's socks I need...no, socks...I said I've got lots of pants. Pants. PANTS. I've got PLENTY of PANTS. No, PANTS. What happens is, we all put our washing in together, and somehow all the socks go...no, the pants come back. I've got pants. PANTS. Can you hear (he says 'yer')...can you yer me? Sorry, we're going up the Gloucester Road and I'm on T mobile, the reception's not very good...PANTS. Look, do you want me to ring you back? (There is a pause, presumably while the call's recipient considers whether this information really warrants another feat of modern technology). Oh, is that better? Yes, pants. I've got enough pants, I've got plenty of pants. It's socks I need. Well, actually I've got lots of socks, new socks, only they're not mine see? I put my socks into the wash, they disappear, and I get someone else's back. No, not the pants. I've got my own pants'.

And so on, and so on until I got off before him leaving Gareth and friend to consider two of life's great mysteries (where do all the socks go, and why do some women promote male underwear dependancy issues?)

And after all of that, you just know that Gareth's going to go home to South Wales Friday night and find a multi-pack of M&S's finest pants on his pillow.