The rain falls steadily on the roof of the shelter. Four large drips fall in the doorway, I had to make my way through them as I came in. The rain has built to a sudden frenzy and is relentless. There are small rivers running along the road and down the hill. I back up against the wall of the shelter as the traffic rushes past, bring up tidal waves from the run off they pass through.
people
The Coffee Shop – 22nd August
There’s a woman in a seat to my right complaining about her job again. She’s a cleaner and she “won’t be finished until 5!” Last time I was here at this time, on my way to another festival, she was here complaining about her job. Someone had not shown up so she would have to do extra. Fair enough. I asked her if they had anyone they could call at short notice but she just shot me down and kept moaning. I left her to her misery and drank my coffee.
The Train
I am multitasking in the quiet coach. The external dvd drive has failed in its main purpose and the stand-up disc lies dormant in the shiny black casing. So instead of watching funny people and quietly chuckling to myself I’m finishing The Metro’s Sudoku, chewing on my pen lid as I try and work out the logical positioning of the numbers – the ‘Easy’ one is always the hardest for me and the one I make most mistakes on as it takes a while for my brain to click back into that form of thinking. Actually I’ve spotted an 8 in the wrong place. Shit. I have also been fixing the track names on my newly installed itunes as I hate it when one album comes up in 7 different parts because of one or to listing errors. I am listening to the revolving selection of tracks from my collection, something from a Now album, then some jazz, musicals, punk, rock… It’s a bit more fun letting it sit on random. Occasionally a song will come on that I think I should add to a playlist. It will be titled ‘Film Soundtrack’ and I will walk around listening to it pretending I’m in a film about my own life. I suspect I’ll find it hard to pick only 15 songs, the sort of standard for an OST.
The Station
There’s a man standing on the platform who looks like Damian Lewis. But he’s obviously not, he’s younger, a bit blonder and it’s not my luck to be at a train station with Damian Lewis. He’s fixated on his phone.
The lady to my left has long flowing brown hair. The sort of hair that you only normally see on L’Oreal ads that has been bought by emaciated Russians. I don’t think she bought it. She is texting frantically and has bronze, swirling embellishments on her brown shoes.
Over hills and far away... 