Recognise
At the end of the night, I got on the last train to anywhere from Reading Station. The last train on a Friday night is always an ordeal—packed with people too young to hold their drink and subsequently shouting, snogging and vomiting. I found a seat and buried my head in a Wrox book, until:
Bloke: Look! It’s Mo!
Pissed people: Mooooooooo!
(I look round, but don’t recognise any of the faces. People start staggering over.)
Bloke: How’s it going, man?
Mo: Err, good thanks. Do I know you?
Bloke: I read your site, man. F*cking pukka!
And that’s when it hit me.