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It was all going swimmingly for Janet, to a point. And that point was when we took public transport. As we headed for Leicester Square to get the Tube home that night I tried to prepare my effervescent friend. I told her that there were certain southern rules it was better not to question and one of those was: do not talk to strangers on the Underground at night.
We got on to a packed Northern Line train and immediately I saw her eyes alight on a target. A young, good-looking guy sitting opposite was smiling at us. ‘Don’t speak to him,’ I whispered in her ear. ‘He looks nice, but he’ll be mad.’
‘Y’alright, mate!’ she called, ‘What do you think of this business with John Terry?’
He didn’t miss a beat. He got up, sat down next to her and put his arm around her shoulder. Then he told her in no uncertain terms that he was about to give her the time of her life.
‘What you on about?’ said Janet, the colour draining from her face.
I admit it, I had a smug smile on my face. I raised my Evening Standard and immersed myself like the veteran southerner that I am in the serious, dignified business of ignoring everyone.
But Janet was not even mildly intimidated. She swatted the over-amorous arm with her gloves and shouted, ‘Oi, you! Get your hands off me!’
Looking astonished, he did as he was told.
‘Right. That’s better. Now, what do you think of John Terry? Do you think he should continue as England captain or not?’
‘Aaagh, errr,’ he slurred drunkenly.
‘Well, come on, make your mind up!’
‘Er, captain?’
‘Right. Thank you!’
Yes, my redoubtable northern friend forced a conversation out of that madman in what I can only describe as the bravest act of social perseverance I have ever seen. At one point she took his iPod from him and made him talk her through his music collection, as I wrapped my newspaper around my head so tightly I could barely breathe. The poor sex pest looked utterly defeated. He made one last attempt to get his arm inside her jacket. But she slapped him hard. ‘Bloody hellfire!’ she said. ‘Why do I always meet nutters on the Tube?’
He protested that he was not a nutter in a hurt way that might have embarrassed a lesser woman, a southern woman, into backing down and being groped a little. But not Janet. ‘Well,’ she harrumphed. ‘You’re certainly not doing yourself any favours.’
When the train arrived at his stop he got up meekly and said goodbye. I came a little way out of my Lady Gaga newspaper headdress. But there were several maniacs left in the carriage and we had a few stops to go. Janet was only just getting started.
Melissa Kite is deputy political editor of the Sunday Telegraph.
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