Wednesday, 28 September 2011
It’s dusk and I am yet to find a bed for the night. This isn’t ideal as I’m in a strange city, so strange in fact, I can’t remember what it’s called. I’m here on a scaffolding job. And there’s a war on. I’m in a roadside bar watching football. Aidan Corrigan is there too. He’s a teacher, not a scaffolder or a soldier, so it’s weird him being here. We order soup.
I feel something on my foot. Like a tremor. I ignore it and comment how warm it is, the weather not the soup. My foot shakes again. I stir.
I wake up. Things are blurry but I recognise the station. It is my station. I panic, unsure if this is the last stop are not. Morrissey is still screaming in my ears. I quickly pull out my headphones and grab my bag and coat.
An old woman is standing by the door. She’s who woke me, how sweet I think. As I’m on way out the door I thank her, she replies but in my bleary rush, I miss it.
Outside, on the platform, I have regained my composure. The old lady is waiting. She is using a walking stick which is what she must have been hitting my foot with. I regain my composure and thank her properly, trying to muster as much Irish charm as I can.
She is shaking her head.
“You shouldn’t have your feet on the seats”
What, I think. Did I? That doesn’t sound like me.
“Pardon” I say
“You’re a naughty boy” she shouts
I don’t know what to say or where to look.
She turns around and walks toward the exit, as she turns for the steps, she looks over at me. She shoots a look of disapproval and disappears beneath the stairwell.
I shake my head and try to remember what I was dreaming about.
Illustration by Gemma Luker