Mr Andy de Vendeuse
18-19, very tall, wearing blue jeans, black trainers, blue corduroy coat lined with sheepskin with sheepskin collar. Long pale hands and fingers. Coils of silver bangles around his wrists. Under his coat are layers of green, then red. He has a striking, long, pale face made even more so by thick-stemmed midnight sunglasses and retro-punk spiky black hair.
He pats the seat next to him and an older woman crosses the aisle to sit next to him. He snuggles up to her and puts his head on her shoulder.
A musician without a band at the moment. He and his mum have decided to chuck everything in and go to France for a few months. His father is French and the hope is that they will get some of the money he owes them. Andy doesn't want to spend too long with his father: he works for some kind of bank, and puts waves in his hair.
What he is doing or thinking
He yearns to put his feet on the vacated chair opposite him. His long skinny legs stretch across the aisle. His mum says "Andy, don't, come on, darling," in an East End voice. He has an inspiration. He puts his feet on the arm rest instead. His mum nips the baggy knees of his trousers and lifts his leg. At that moment an old geezer comes to sit down, so he moves anyway. Andy smiles. His mum is great. France, whatever happens, will be fun. He looks over her shoulder at a magazine.