The Journey

The seats in Standard crammed with far more snobs than decent folk - their fuzzy woolen blazers, laptops and discerning stares - I have no hope of finding space. Wandering through First, oddly-ordinary-in-appearance children clamber next to parents before, in southern accent too familiar, making jovial remarks on peckishness whilst scrutinising menu - and it makes me wonder what narrow thoughts they'll entertain upon entry to adulthood. Still - no chance have I, in trendy-slob jumper, trailing sneaker lace and hard-worn pack, of gaining entry into exclusivity of plush and serviced travel. So on I march, squeezing past a knee or bag with every dozen hardly-balanced steps, longing for the joy of coffee, cake and nothingness with friends.

And only when I reach the end do I find solace.

Beyond the final carriage, a small rough-carpeted, dust-encrusted vestibule where I can lower pack and lounge, albeit in said dust, in true hard-knocks glad-to-be-here fashion which so many scorn.

With nowhere beyond, I'm rarely disturbed except by grinning puzzled employees with seethrough bags of empty-package trash, seeming glad of friendly word opposing dominating scorn of seated folk. I dont suppose they quite know what to make of it.

And so, notebook and coke in hand, and pack with travel guide to sustain my muse, I write.

I note the extra-bumpiness of front-train travel, as perfect words in mind, become jagged foreign forms upon the page, and with each twist or change of track a giant thumping crack gives mini adrenaline shock to fragile mind.

At each station, I'm reminded of a world outside my awkward haven as the doors open, with piston hiss, and the outer environment seeps into mine - with each stop the decreasing light is paramount to increasing sogginess of air but neither has effect on pleasant chill, which I suspect is vicious when exposed. It does however, decrease the level of smoky, choking fumes seeping from smokers pit behind me.

Further on, my ears are assaulted by sparking squeal of parts on rails beneath me, and mechanical monotone buzzing which I hope like hell is normal.

Withe each passing train, a rush of air's exchanged by both, I assume, andsound like door has opened - it takes a glance to reassure myself each time.

Each stop we make, the incoming breeze has different taste to it, and when we hit Westgate's sweet crispness of clean North air, I know that I am almost home.

And only on the final 15 minute leg do my travel receptors start to fade, as I think of things to do once there; a more productive, sociable occassion. Still, I have enjoyed the journey, and the chanceto share it with my pen and pad.