Girl on a train

I have a dear, dear friend of long standing and occasionally featured on these pages, AJ. Every now and again she takes to calling me and whingeing about how old she is and how bits of her are falling off, sagging and/or not working properly anymore. She has always been given to over-exaggeration about the ravages of time upon her person and these sleights against herself I take with a bucket of salt, notwithstanding the fact that a) I haven't seen her for the best part of a decade and b) a decade most of which she spent flogging bits of Dubai to Premiership footballers. In Dubai. She likes the sun.



Earlier this afternoon she called me while waiting for a train and mentioned her new hair cut and once again to moan about the acres of spare flesh she's having to deal with. I cut her short. I don't believe you, I said and in interweb parlance, no good without pictures. Rather surprisingly she said she would send me a picture there and then. This was a genuine development; I've been asking the same thing of her for months. A minute later I opened the message and yes indeed, there was a picture:

AJ can, bless her, be spectacularly blonde. I think the thing at the bottom right is probably her knee. When she called back, I asked her to next time turn the phone round and stare into the little round thing. We did several LOLs at which point she admitted that she'd just got off the train while it was waiting and shouted a request of the driver as to whether it was the Amersham one and the reason she didn't get a reply was that she realised she'd been speaking to his reflection. No, I can't work that one out either. I still haven't received a picture.