Underground

The old lady opened her Ferrero Rochet so delicately it was as if the foil was in fact a gold leaf that she had picked from a gold tree that she had chopped down with her gold chainsaw. Forcing the gold blackbird into temporary homelessness as the gold twigs from his gold nest fell to the gold ground, sticking violently into the gold mud like a thousand golden javelins. The gold postman on his gold bicycle with his gold letters skidded to a stop as the gold tree blocked his golden path. The gold clouds burst, crying golden tears of empathy for the gold blackbird, safe in the knowledge they will always have a home in the golden sky.
As she began to eat the brown cluster I wondered if she thought she was at an upper-class dinner party instead of travelling on the tube. I was on my way to work and I was already fifteen minutes late.