The Full English is a breakfast meal commonly served on American dinner plates. Here, it's a metaphor, though a bit of misdirection.
There is something not quite normal about the day. I left home this morning at my normal time; yet, here I sit a full five minutes early. That should only be possible were my bike rocket-powered. Then, there's the freaky bit: the carriage rests beside it's platform two-doors-open on a cold morning and, in the cold convection inside, sits Mr. I Feel A Breeze sipping a cold drink. There is much so obviously wrong about this. And, he is ten minutes early! Together, we'll sit here, idle for another fifteen before the train leaves the station.
They say, the early bird catches the worm. The third man, a cyclist, joins us not a minute later. I've never seen him before. He has entered through a door behind two seated women. They, themselves, seem to have appeared from out of nothing whilst I retrieved this tablet from my backpack. I'm coming quickly to believe that the opening of my backpack, whether to pack or unpack gear, opens a rift that swallows time. Do it again, I tell myself, You'll be in London. I spend more than a work day each week riding the train. That would be good. But, there isn't a wormhole in my bag.
Still, something is wrong. Each of seats in this refurbished carriage sit facing me. Everyone else will enter London backward. This is good for the third man, who catches my eye as he looks about furtively, as though he might steal the seats while no one is looking. He strips off his jacket, spreading his arms back like wings, to take flight. Then, he peels off a jumper -- cause and effect is a sweater for the American reader -- which seems perfectly normal. But, then, off comes the white T beneath. He wipes himself with it, in broad cartoon motions, like the creator of Roger Rabbit, changing a scene.
To make room in his bag for his clothes, he removes more clothes and places them on the seat behind. He stuffs old clothes into the bag, then kicks off his shoes. In an instant his trousers are down; and, he stuffs them into the bag as well. I'm guessing, he had an early meeting and needed to change on the train rather than at the office. Fear of losing his expensive fold-up bike likely leaves him changing in the entry galley rather than in the next carriage's public toilet.*
You would no sooner expect that a man standing on a train in little more than budgie smugglers (read, with socks) was bound for Norfolk beaches rather than to London, when he turns expectation aside to reveal the budgie. Of course, you might note that an exhibitionist trades on other people's modesty if not their attention. -- Me? I'm just experiencing a flashback. All I see is suddenly green. The green of Parker's Piece, where Autumn's rugby boys strip imagination of civies and hop naked into skimpy uniform shorts. The pantheon of haka warriors run onto the field one after another, like the cars of a train.
If I see the man again, I'll know him as Monty, the Full English. After the day I've had, the memory has been hardy enough to stick with me throughout and back on the long train home.
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American readers should be advised that public toilet is the British English for restroom. -- Public, in the UK, can sometimes mean private. A public school, as opposed to a state school, for example, is as public as money can buy, just as money in an American political campaign is free speech.
The English male is renowned for his reserve. It will typically take weeks if not months to chat-up, to befriend almost any one of them. Hence, my use of nicknames for those who regularly share my train into London. At the same time, however, the English male sometimes seems to have little trouble getting his kit off (changing clothes) in public. Before Monty, tFE, I'd have sworn this was behaviour limited to rugby players.
