Hope ‘ee’s alright

“Eee luv, so they ‘ad to doo a bit’er explorat’ry rand ‘is gall bladder, an’ that’s none too pleasant, boot at least it wern’t the ‘Big C’, know wot I mean?” I felt for the bloke at first, but imagine the collective exhalation of relief and mopping of fast-dampening brows on the learning of my fellow commuters and I of the poor unfortunate’s avoidance of the ‘Big C’. How grateful were we that an attack of self-consciousness had not prevented the surprisingly young and pretty looking northern scullery lass-cum-office worker from bawling the final words of her phone conversation to every cubic nanometre of a packed carriage on entering. I felt such gratitude that I almost offered to pay for the repair of the botched procedure that had left a five-inch gangrenous gash, spurting foul emissions, across her face.