I sat between two aliens on the Bakerloo Line the other day. At first I thought they were men dressed in shiny silver foil with clothes hangers as antennae, but on closer inspection, their scaly skin was not well applied face paint but a true algae pigment, and their webbed fingers were not artificially attached, but biologically correct.
They boarded the train at 9:46pm, waddled down the empty aisle, ignoring the two rows of available seats and sat on either side of me. I contemplated moving because of the breeze their gills brushed on my cheeks, but I didn’t want to appear rude, so we sat there in silence until the train left the platform.
“Oh, what are we going to do? Thanks to Madame Tussaud, we’ll never escape this wretched planet now!” the alien on my right wept.
The other leant over me and patted his companion on the back. I squirmed in my seat.
“Cheer up brother. The Planetarium seizing our trans-galactic-portation does not mean we can’t get home. I have a contingency plan, but it won’t be pleasant.”
The alien turned his head at an impossible angle to look at me with his catlike eyes.
“My kind man, my brother here and I are from the Constellation of Ursa, we’re in a little predicament which you may be able to help us out of. Can I ask, have you ever been probed?”
The carriage jolted and the lights went out, throwing us into darkness.
I haven’t sat right since.