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Who would cut their finger-nails on the early-morning commuter train?
There I was this morning in one of my usual single seats by the loo, typing up a passage in my new novel, ARRIVAL, where the protoganist is clicking his fingers to the rhythm of the jazz number that he is singing in his audition in 1931 at the Palace Theatre on Broadway, when a snip-snip-snipping caught my ears.
A young, neatly dressed Chinese man had a white plastic bag on his lap and was cutting his nails with a pair of nail-clippers. Clip, clip, clip went the clippers as the quarter-moon crescents of his finger-nails fell into his carefully-arranged carrier bag. It quite put me off my coffee, and my writing.
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