The centre of the Earth is boring and I figured that it was high time I was getting out of there. I went to the museum and asked Mr Weeble if it would be possible to get a taxi to take me home. He said that they didn't often venture south of the mantle at this time of night, and in any case the fare was likely to be equivalent to the gross national product of Portugal. He did, however, tell me that there was a tube station nearby, so I thanked him kindly, gave him a kiss on each cheek, then toddled off.
The Centre on the Earth is one of the quieter stations on the London Underground. There were plans to close it a few years ago, but it was saved following a public outcry. When I arrived there was only one other person waiting, a tall man wearing a smart suit and a paisley cravat. He had bouffant hair and wrinkled skin and reminded me a little bit of an orange - except the hair of course. I have never seen a hairy orange.
He nodded at me politely, then completely ignored me and avoided all eye contact, the way that commuters do when they haven't been formally introduced. After about five minutes of this, I decided that I would break the silence - this I did by blowing a series of raspberries of increasing length and duration. He coughed and took a step away from me. Still, it had broken the ice and so I observed that it wasn't very busy. He agreed with me. I then commented that it had been a nice day. He said yes, it had been a nice day. I then said we had had much better weather today than we had had yesterday. Once more he concurred, and I felt by now that we were going to become firm friends.