The twenty pence coin shone defiantly from within the toilet bowl, the Queen's tiny silver head staring deep down to the sewer system connecting these services toilets with the main veins and arteries of the piss and shit extended network. I grinned, amused at the multiple absurd realisations of the moment. I had pissed on the Queen's head. I had pissed on British Money. I had pissed on someone else's dropped twenty p coin. Who knows, I might have even pissed on their wish.
'Please remember that the stop over is just twenty minutes long, and that after that time the coach will continue its journey, with or without you on board' the driver had warned, authoritatively but with affection and concern. If I'd been twenty years old I would have surely attempted to connect the numbers and make these coincidental (am i certain?) events into a full-blown kismet narrative, tracing it aaaall the way back to the beginning of time and the universe of which I, and everything else, are a part. Alas, I recently turned twenty-three and already feel far too old for kismet narratives. It's almost funny, how suddenly everything wanes in importance, and moments are weaker, inconsequential. Maybe it's repetition. Or boredom. Or the repetition of boredom. Maybe even habit. Maybe I've been smoking too long.
In front of the mirror, press the tap, pull the trigger, rub hands with soap, wash out press button rub hands to dry. Do not turn to look towards the row of men at urinals holding cocks down. For God's sake do not think about blowjobs in seedy services toilets.
I guess it's the curse of the trapped gay man hovering in the distance. Could be a manifestation of displaced desire. Or would everyone, given the chance, gladly fuck or get fucked or blow or lick or finger or bite or kiss or fight or hug or hold someone in order to finally feel something in their bodies and outside their minds?
In the shop holding 'primo' coffee cup patiently waiting at queue smiling at nice-lady-behind-the-counter-who-must-be-so-unbelievably-bored-with-her-job as she talks to the man in front of me in a friendly west country slash flerty way about the offer on the chocolate bar he's about to buy. 'Three for two' she tries to say but he quickly declines and she says 'thanks for that, saving my oxugen you are'. Breathe in, breathe out, nice lady of the counter, and feel at peace and one with the world.
Outside take off jacket such warm October we're having and light the rollie I made an hour ago on the coach (Time works like this: There are as many hours in a day as there are cigarettes. Today, I have lived through six hours already). Sit down on railing looking a bit miserable and tired and observe fellow passengers. Ignore teenagers as they chit chat. Try not to empathise with the driver. Consider woman smoking one after the other. Identify with guy with tattoo who was reading Terry Pratchett. Wonder whether the old man from Cornwall with the newspaper is actually a secret terrorist operative planning to unleash upon London the fury
of a cider-pasty combination bomb. Definitely, do not think about blowjobs.
Take a few drags, turn round, muse about quiet trip to the countryside, plan things not to do and other relaxation techniques, regret making that promise to myself that I would not smoke or drink as much as possible while away from the Troubles of the Capital. Know fully well that I will break that promise profusely, and that the fucking smoker's cough is not going to go away for a while yet, at least until the gradual process of the graduate re-integration programme I have involuntarily joined has come full-circle and I have become a placid, amorphous, non-smoking, non-drinking, non-feeling mediocrity of an office worker who has recently discovered the Amazingly Content Philosopy of the Alpha Course. I'm well angry aren't I?
Roll a thin one while five minutes are left and wonder in amazement how the only fit guy on the coach, now walking towards me holding 'primo' coffee cup and making flip-flop sounds had escaped my attention. Look at him trying not to stare trying not to show any interest clumsily while he looks back for a bit and then looks away. The blowjob image now of course turning into innocently naive daydream where (after seedy cubicle encounter and subsequent missing of coach) we embark on a tortuous, intense and soundtrack-accompanied love affair focused on roaming the countryside before reaching Plymouth, taking the ferry to Northern Spain, walking the pilgrimage to Santiago de Compostela together and then parting amicably, he, being spiritually altered joining the Order and revelling in self-flagulation, I, rediscovering cannabis and thus through more arduous walking, joining a Spanish neo-hippie travelling commune with no clear aim in life while finally getting arrested in Morocco for smuggling (self-flagulation?).
End of cigarette daydream head back to coach while the monk-to-be seems entirely unmoved by my fantasy, most probably because he hasn't the faintest idea about it. What is this drive to transform my momentary lust into an ever more complex gay erotica short-story or American indie film?
Is it because I'm bored? Is it because somehow all the images I have been provided with to understand my desire are based on loose affections, one-hit wonders, subverted introverted short affairs, necessarily marginal associations, painful death or even more painful imprisonment? Is it because I have seen so many people today, on the Tube, on the Street, at Victoria station, none of whom I know, none of whom I have talked to? A therapist would tell you that I am actually undergoing the preliminary stages of erotomania and that I indulge in excessively wild fantasies in order to exacerbate the drama in my life and avoid taking responsibility for my thoughts, feelings and actions. He will most definitely mention my father.
I, on the other hand, blame the fact that there are, on this coach, twenty eight passengers who are all travelling alone and who have not said a word to one another for four hours. I blame the pervasiveness of instant gratification. I blame Romeo fucking Juliette and both of them fucking dying. I also blame boredom, but more than anything I blame the twenty pence coin in the toilet bowl, refusing to be flushed down and shining, oh shining like the fake gold it is. Yes I do. Typical money. 'You can have me for free if you're willing to go through the shit'.

On the coach, listen to music and watch as trees and cows are followed by more trees and cows and the occasional village or stream. Interrupt my thought at the sight of modern sculpture of a woman running which looks disturbingly like the Angel of the North's little Devon sister. Maybe it's about being connected to others. Maybe I should just talk to my fellow passengers. Maybe they should talk to me. But we won't.
Outside October mist is rolling in from the sea and I can vaguely distinguish villages and little bridges and traveller campsites and the outskirts of my final destination. In a few days, I will be on a similar coach heading home to London, maybe longing to sleep on my bed and cook in my kitchen and sit in my living room and check my emails and do all the things I'm used to. However, if, by chance. the coach stops at a services and I, heart-throbbing in anticipation, see a tiny little Queen's head sparkling in the toilet bowl, I promise to do everything in my power to get arrested for smuggling in Morocco.