The wicked witch of the Met writes
On last night's, crowded as usual, Bakerloo train up to Baker Street, I became aware that a woman standing near me was having problems working out where she was. Her accent betrayed her as American. A gentlemen nearby offered to help and showed her where to change for her intended destination of Harrow. They got chatting and as neither bothered to keep their voices down, everyone around them could listen in. "And where are you from?" he asked, perhaps identifying her unusual mid-west twang. "Kansas city" was the answer.
I had to bite hard on the pen I was using to fill in my regular "Codewords" puzzle book that keeps me welcome company on these journeys. For without this essential oral distraction I would surely have announced for all to hear "You're not in Kansas anymore Dorothy".