The Journey


Fifteen minutes before her stop she packed away her things, put on her cardigan, coat and scarf and moved to stand in the vestibule.  She could feel her cheeks getting redder as she loaded up with her bags, but the blast of cool air was welcoming after the stifling heat of the carriage.  She let her over-stuffed over night bag fall against her boots as she stood at the door. She grasped the bars either side of the misted window, their metallic chill passing across her fingers and steadying her from the rocking of the train.

The landscape rolled past, a comforting combination of greens, browns and yellows, spotted with vibrant flashes of orange and red from the changing leaves.  She snuggles her nose and mouth into the folds of her scarf and tried to imagine some of the lives contained within the sparsely scattered homes passing by her.

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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.

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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.

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