Well, really.

I've never felt so violated in all my life. Really.

Picture the scene: Half past seven pee em in the City, and I wearily wend my way through the suits and the shouting towards the bus stop. Against all the odds a number 47 makes an appearance almost immediately (unheard of), and I leap aboard, make for the top deck and settle myself down for twenty minutes of peace and a game of Bantumi on the circa-1980s phone my company generously bestowed upon me.

Naturally, I hadn't bargained for the shrieking harridan behind me. Oddly enough I had failed to notice her when I sat down, but as soon as the bus sets off she launches into a hideous monologue, directed at some no-doubt similarly monstrous banshee on the other end of the phone line. The upshot of the conversation seems to be that she isn't getting enough of 'it', she needs loads of 'it', her boyfriend isn't very good at 'it', she is planning to get a (volume of voice decreases by point 1 of a decibel) vibrator (voice goes back to very loud) because she needs 'it' all the time. All quite disturbing, naturally. But that's not the worst of it.

The worst of it is that, during this revolting speech, she actually - I'm not kidding here - starts stroking my right shoulder. Seriously. At first I hope that she's just nudging me accidentally, but no. Her vile fingers are actually reaching through the gap in the back of the seat and, quite deliberately, moving back and forth on my shoulder. I won't lie - I am terrified at this point. I shift forward a little in my seat, just in case she doesn't realise what she's doing. The stroking continues. It's awful. I daren't turn round. The nails-down-a-blackboard monologue continues. She gets really frustrated if she doesn't get 'it' all the time, she really loves 'it', she'd do 'it' all day long if she could. Stroke stroke stroke. I feel like I'm actually about to have a stroke. I strain my eyes to the left, trying to catch her reflection in the window, but she's just in the wrong place. I'm thinking of getting off the bus here and now. I can't take this any longer...

And then, just like that, the conversation finishes, and the finger withdraws. I'm left, unbothered, unharrassed, and strangely rejected. I get off the bus a couple of stops later, glancing up at my tormentor as I turn to go down the stairs. She's not that bad, actually. The sad irony is, I probably would've.

Apart from that, nothing else interesting has happened. But it's the weekend any minute now, a night out on the lash beckons, and come Monday, I'll have stories galore with which to bombard you.

Bye then.