Last Train
The last train south is always a fun trip. A mental journey away from the heart of where the action is. Like boxers on the shaky, unguaranteed journey back to their corners. Crammed into too few carriages on a train they can only hope is going where the digital board said. It brings together all walks of London life. Business men, students, housewives, shop workers, creatives and the dull. All of them pissed drunk.
That's why there is a last train, so the London authorities can deal with the piss heads one by one in the burbs rather than as one uncontrollable mass in the middle of The Strand. If you can get on it there's a 15 minute trip, standing through muggy piss mist and alcohol fug before the fresher air of wherever it is you live.
Meanwhile, some fall asleep and are never seen of again, until they show up in Gillingham, where they babble nonsense to people in high streets about how the hell a friend could let them sleep past their stop. Others, the sober perhaps, sit with a briefcase on their lap, eyes wide, ever cautious of the drunk who likes to chat. You can see behind their eyes the voice in their head telling them they'll never work late again. They want off. A stop early if they sense trouble.
Then there's me, with a tendency to day dream. Last night I sat staring front, watching out of the window as people got off and made their way through a door way onto the street, a street which looked incredibly familiar. Then the train pulled away, me still sat there, as I'd watched my stop come and go. Strange moment, like watching yourself on the operating table.
But nevermind. Don't be too harsh on yourself. Get off at the next stop - the place that even the police don't patrol - and hop in a taxi back. The driver won't ask questions, he just wants your cash. There are no questions on the last train home, they'll take anybody. That's the beauty of it. Another leveler.
I hated it last night though. You need a mental run-up to get on the thing and get off at the other end still holding the rags of your good mood. Get on in a bad state and you're giving up part of your soul. I'll learn next time. Or the time after that.
That's why there is a last train, so the London authorities can deal with the piss heads one by one in the burbs rather than as one uncontrollable mass in the middle of The Strand. If you can get on it there's a 15 minute trip, standing through muggy piss mist and alcohol fug before the fresher air of wherever it is you live.
Meanwhile, some fall asleep and are never seen of again, until they show up in Gillingham, where they babble nonsense to people in high streets about how the hell a friend could let them sleep past their stop. Others, the sober perhaps, sit with a briefcase on their lap, eyes wide, ever cautious of the drunk who likes to chat. You can see behind their eyes the voice in their head telling them they'll never work late again. They want off. A stop early if they sense trouble.
Then there's me, with a tendency to day dream. Last night I sat staring front, watching out of the window as people got off and made their way through a door way onto the street, a street which looked incredibly familiar. Then the train pulled away, me still sat there, as I'd watched my stop come and go. Strange moment, like watching yourself on the operating table.
But nevermind. Don't be too harsh on yourself. Get off at the next stop - the place that even the police don't patrol - and hop in a taxi back. The driver won't ask questions, he just wants your cash. There are no questions on the last train home, they'll take anybody. That's the beauty of it. Another leveler.
I hated it last night though. You need a mental run-up to get on the thing and get off at the other end still holding the rags of your good mood. Get on in a bad state and you're giving up part of your soul. I'll learn next time. Or the time after that.
posted by Stephen | 9:46 AM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home