Views from an Early Morning Train ride

Despite it being early morning, body odour still jostled with coffee to be the main air polluter, while yawns, snores and grumbles at the late running of the service echoed through the carriage. People were going to be late for meetings, in danger of missing planes and were having their shopping days in London cut short, all thanks to a points failure in Swansea. Last Saturday I was pleased when Swansea got no points, losing one nil to Watford but today it was not as pleasing. The harsh white glare of the strip lighting inside the train contrasted with the hazy, yellowing hue of the sunrise.  It felt like the train had stolen us from our hazy sleep and was hurtling us to the harsh reality of the morning.

The woman hobbled on to the train and sat down with a relieved bump. Her dyed blonde hair was held up revealing a pained expression on her face.  As soon as the train moved she unbuckled her right shoe and slipped the offending article off, revealing a nasty looking red blotch on her heel, the white skin peeled back to reveal a grizzly, angry wound. She grimaced as she frantically checked her bag, searching for plasters, eventually she found one, it was too small and might even do more harm than good, but any port in a storm.

Mr Chatterbox ignored the quiet carriage regulations and continued to badger the man opposite him who in turn continued to try to deflect his conversations and return to his computer screen. His efforts were in vain; Chatterbox wouldn't be beaten. Chatterbox’s chocolate, white and blue stripped shirt shouted ‘I earn big money’ but his demeanour was more childlike, more naïve, his constant chatter a cry for attention. He spoke about everything and nothing, his voice was soft, almost a mumble meaning his interlocutor had to strain to hear words he obviously didn’t want to hear.

I can tell you the balloon man washes his hands after using the loo, well at least I hope he does. His podgy frame waddled through the train on the way to the toilet and then on the way back too. He seemed swollen, like everything was inflated, his nose, ears, cheeks, fingers, neck all had a marshmallow quality to them. His white hair was nicotine stained and did little to hide his red scalp. As he walked up the train  he grabbed the seats to steady himself and as he walked back and he grabbed my seat water from his hand dripped down the back of my shirt.

The train rattled across the countryside, heading towards the dark clouds that were eating up the sunrise for breakfast. The train hit the rain like a car in a carwash, a tunnel of water washing over us. And in the midst of the downpour the train arrived at Reading, spewing me out mercilessly into the deluge.