On the way home
…the train was full of guides and scouts. The front carriage had been locked shut so that only they could use it. They had booked three carriages, but of course they didn’t get them. They spilled over into the carriages behind, swarming about me. An island of public in a sea of woggles.
On the way home the woman in the seat opposite shouted all the way from London. She was talking to the person beside me. She looked like Edmund’s aunt in Blackadder II, albeit without the cassok.
On the way home the people behind me talked louder and louder so they could hear themselves over the voices of the rest of the crowd. They drowned out the earphones in my ears. They drowned out the guard when he said something I’d wanted to hear.
On the way home the train broke down. We were stuck outside Shenfield for the first half of a documentary on Radio 4. Me and the scouts and the guides. The guard said something else. I don’t know what. A man with a torch walked the length of the train.
On the way home I sat down on the tube. Four stops later I stood up, my legs cold and wet. On the shelf behind the seat was an empty can of Fanta. Dripping from my jeans was the liquid it once contained.
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