So, if you had a weirder morning than I did today, then I want to hear about it. Come on, don't be shy. Prove to me that you can whip me hands down when it comes to the total freakshow that was my journey into work today. But somehow ... I just don't think you can.

SCENE: my street, Streatham, 8:50am.
Walking down the road, iPod plugged in (Damien Rice), mid text message. A woman ahead of me is walking two dogs, off the leash. Small, squat little creatures, they look a bit like Staffies. But when I draw level, and the noise of my heels against the pavement gets their attention, they turn round, and I see I was only half correct in guessing their breed. Because these dogs have the bodies of small Staffies, but the faces of pure unmitigated evil. Does anyone remember Ghostbusters, and the evil dog that terrorises Sigourney Weaver? Worse than that. They start to circle me, wandering around my legs, not growling, not making a sound, but staring up at me with their nasty, twisted, hellish features. Soon enough, their owner called them back to her side, but I still walked away shuddering a little. After all, I can't claim to have glimpsed the face of pure evil very often. Not since that musician I was briefly seeing, anyway.

SCENE: the bus, approaching Brixton, about 9:15am.
A group of commuters, including myself, are sitting quietly on the top deck. A man climbs up the stairs and, when he reaches the top, he is revealed to be a tall, forty-something Rastafarian, in the requisite gigantic woolly hat, and draped in flags. In a voice loud enough to shake the seats loose, he begins to preach a fervent sermon, giving equal weight to the Lord Jesus Christ and Haile Selassie. He begins to point at people. I superglue my eyes to the passing scenery and turn my iPod up enough to be at real risk of being deafened by British Sea Power. He gets off at the next stop. The bus visibly breathes a sigh of relief.

SCENE: the bus, Brixton, a mere few minutes later.
A smart, respectable-looking man boards the bus, and takes the seat next to me. He has a book with him, which he begins to read and, after my curiosity gets the better of me, I find myself hoping against hope it's a medical textbook. Because there are some VERY rude pictures in it. One drawing appears to show a man, nude, vigorously massaging his posterior. Another drawing looks like it could easily be an audition piece for Puppetry of the Penis. This is where I start to doubt the medical nature of this book, as whatever the man in the drawing is doing, it does not look anatomically beneficial in any way, shape or form. I don't even posess that particular part of anatomy, but I'm still tempted to wince and cross my legs.

Think you can do any better?