The morning started with a stealthy departure from the house at 6:55 - the reason for said stealth being the avoidance of waking W. We are trying to enjoy “not getting up until we need to” in this ever decreasing period before children inhabit the house.
The “children” subject alludes to our continuing path down the route to adoption, which I promise to write about soon.
I arrive at Marlow station to catch the 7:13 train to Bourne End, and am puzzled. It’s normally sat waiting when I walk onto the platform. It’s not there. I place my bag on the ground, and notice that the dark haired lady sat on the bench a few yards to the left of me reminds me of somebody - except I can’t quite put my finger on who it might be.
A repeating announcement issues forth from the speaker system announcing that the “Next train will be the 7:13 service to Bourne End”. 7:13 passes. A businessman a little further along the platform begins pacing back and forth in an annoyed manner. He has very pointy shoes, and a gold coloured silk tie. He obviously wants everybody to know that he’s very annoyed. I resign myself to being late.
Presently a voice drifts across the platform “There’s a bus waiting in the car park to take us all to Bourne End”. Immediate stampede. By virtue of my height - and therefore leg length - I arrive at the car park fairly quickly - assuring myself of a spot fairly near the bus in the scrum that forms. This doesn’t stop several “very important indeed” businessmen from pushing past me. I seem to be the only person with any manners.
We arrive at Bourne End just it time to catch the Paddington train - and small herds of bezerker “very important indeed” businessmen dive in front of cars to cross the road to the station like wildebeests braving the surging rapids of the Amazon.
I find a quiet spot on the train, lift my bag into the overhead luggage rack, and try to get comfortable. Being over 6 feet tall doesn’t really “work” on public transport in Britain. This is proven when a large fat man decides to sit opposite me. He obviously has no concept of personal space, and does not react at all when he spreads his sausage like legs out across the carriage, forcing me to retract into my corner like a demented crane fly.
The fat man is having a very indepth discussion with the man who sits next to me, and I don’t look at. I can’t look at him because he’s completely unwittingly sat against me, with his bag wedged into my ribs. No apology. Why not just sit ON me? Their discussion is condemning people using laptops on trains. Throughout their very vocal castigations, I am using my Palm Pilot, and thinking “fuck you”. The fat man then pulls an enormous book from the bag which only just fits on his lap, and unfurls it to read during the journey. The poor lady who has ended up sitting next to him (due to a lack of free seats) gets hit by the book. Again no apology. The book is a collection of essays about the Anglican Church - I then notice that his bag is emblazoned with a very official looking badge to do with the society of anglican something or others.
I sit, hunched in my corner, slowly developing cramps while the two annoying gentlemen with no manners or social graces fall asleep. The poor lady - who is being squashed - catches my glance. She isn’t happy either.
We eventually arrive at Paddington station, and I wander straight to the coffee bar. A horrid journey can always be erased by a cappuccino and a pastry. I don’t really care if it can’t - I just want something bad for me that tastes good.
Finally, we arrive at the reason for the title of today’s post. Walking through the concourse of Paddington Station at 8:15, bright shafts of light flooded the sea of people, casting long shadows across the station. Squinting into the brilliance of it all, I recall the Anthony Gormley sculpture “Another Place”, and wish I had my camera.