Hungover and feeling sorry for myself I have just boarded a train for the final leg of a long journey. I am sitting across from an older man who has dressed for Sunday. When I’m his age I’ll dress for Sunday I think to myself.
As I open my paper I look up. A woman has appeared by my seat. The train is less than half full and very silent.
“Excuse me” she says to the middle aged woman who is seating adjacent to me.
“Where is the toilet on this train?” she asks.
“I don’t know. I’m ever so sorry” the middle aged woman replies.
The toilet seeking lady looks at me.
I look up. She has thin hair and hasn’t put her make up on very well.
“I don’t think there are any toilets” I say. I want to add an ‘ever-so-sorry’ but on
account of my Irishness and hangover I don’t think I’ll pull it off, so I don’t.
The woman stares back at me. My eyes creep back to my paper.
Silence.
She remains standing, over my shoulder. I can hear her bladder filling but admit it’s probably the hangover.
Finally, a fat man, bless him, pipes up and confirms she’ll have to hold.
“Gosh something or other” she says.
She’s speaking to us like we’re all in it together, strangers on a train bound by shared experience. We’re not though.
She sits back down.
How rude I think. This woman has totally ruined my trip. How am I supposed to enjoy my hangover and newspaper knowing this lady’s is bursting for the toilet? I mean how bad is it? Should I put some paper down?
I try to forget about it but can’t. Her shifting is right in my eye-line. Reading the Sundays with a hangover is hard enough without all of this I think.
The train stops. We’re not at a station. This could be a disaster.
The driver makes an announcement apologising for the delay. He’ll keep us informed he says.
We all look at the woman. She gives a squirmy smile.
I sigh and wish I didn’t know she was dying for a piss.
Friday, 11 November 2011
Tuesday, 8 November 2011
Monday, a few minutes before rush hour
The life of a commuter is full of many things; stress, Angry Birds, influenza. The diet of a commuter is not, stir fry, pasta, chicken Kiev, the list of week night dinners is not a long one.
Casseroles, curries or any other dish that requires any real cooking time rarely makes it to the school night dinner table of the London commuter. Not today though. Today I have finished work on time and have all the ingredients needed for a chicken casserole with tomato and cider recipe I was given.
The train is mostly full but my usual seat is free and I slide into the window seat. Across from me sit an elderly couple. They must be in their 70s. He looks like a cross between Martin Sheen and Murray Walker and is wearing a flat cap, a green jacket and dark green cord trousers. She has a slightly camel looking face, in a charming way, and wears a cream overcoat, leather gloves and wine coloured trousers. She carries an umbrella and a large handbag. They both wear poppies.
As I sit down I quickly take out my headphones to make sure the noise doesn’t bother them. They have been talking about the crowds on the train.
“It’s going home time, almost” she says, looking at her watch.
“Yes” he replies, giving her a smile.
He pauses and then leans into her.
“We’re going home with the workers”
They both smile and he leans back into his seat still smiling. It’s all very sweet. I go back to my book and they continue to chit chat to one another.
“Downton” I hear the lady say.
“It’s funny what they did”
I fumble for my headphones.
“Not really funny but…” she continues.
I have been avoiding Twitter and conversation with colleagues all day so as not to find out who snuffs it in the last Downton Abbey of the series and now…
I quickly press PLAY. Ghostpoet fills my ears. I lay back still ignorant and my evening’s entertainment unspoiled and think about the direction my life, full of casserole and period drama, has taken.
Thursday, 6 October 2011
Yesterday
Not Rihanna. Curses.
http://www.google.com/hostednews/ukpress/article/ALeqM5gDpyrkdM9mqA_B__E4-okX4X5npA?docId=N0789181317886276892A
http://www.google.com/hostednews/ukpress/article/ALeqM5gDpyrkdM9mqA_B__E4-okX4X5npA?docId=N0789181317886276892A
Wednesday, 28 September 2011
Early Tuesday evening
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
Wednesday, 5 January 2011
A song about trains...
Wednesday, 29 December 2010
A Phonecall
It’s Thursday morning, between 6 and 7, and almost Christmas. I have only a handful of 2010 commutes left. Snow is on the way though. My flight home, for Christmas in Cork, is in jeopardy, work is busy, time is running out and I have a performance review this afternoon. Luckily I’m reading a good book, cooked my best ever chilli last night (still burned the pot), and am sitting in my favourite seat on the train. I’m a little stressed but things could be worse I think.
Enter a twitching man.
There’s something about him. I don’t know if it’s the dreadful trainers, the very blue jeans or the gold chain that’s dangling from his neck but there’s definitely something about him. He boards the carriage and like a jerk looks for a seat. He plops alongside me.
He smells of cigarettes.
The smell of fags mixed with morning damp is revolting.
He leafs through his Metro like he’s inspecting legal documents. He’s back and forth, fidgeting with himself, up, down, cough, sniff.
I can’t read like this. It’s Thursday morning, how did I end up spending what should be the most civilised part of the day in the company of halfwits like this?
His phone rings, blessed relief for the poor bastard, finally he has something that’s easy to concentrate on. It’s a dreadful ring tone; commercial dance/hip hop, the kind you’d hear in a niteclub for the thick and the lonely.
“Alright mate” He’s faux cockney and a shouter.
It appears the caller is returning an earlier missed call.
“I was just checking if you were still on for tonight”
It’s only slightly after 7 am.
The conversation continues loudly, and infuriatingly. His friend is still able to meet after work – at least 8 hours from now – but is unsure about how to get to their previously agreed rendezvous point. Bad news for those within earshot, in this case the entire carriage, I’m bearing a fair brunt of it though.
“You need the get 9-1-9 mate”
“Nah, it’s easy. The 9-1-9, right by the chemist. You know the chemist on the Bells Road, it stops right outside there”
Pause.
“You there?”
He looks at his phone. I notice his screensaver is a woman in a purple bikini. She looks pretty. I wonder if it’s his girlfriend. Some girls have dreadful taste in my experience so I wouldn’t be surprised.
He calls back.
“Yeah mate, it went crap I don’t know why.”
I don’t know why a man with a voice as dreadful as this one gets to talk on the phone.
He continues…
“The 9-1-9…”
He has a way of saying that number. I want to scream at him. Can I stress again that it’s about ten past seven in the morning. PHONE HIM AT LUNCH TIME YOU FUCKWIT, I want to scream.
To othersI must look like another listless passenger but on the inside I am full of rage.
“You know where you work”
Moron, moron, moron.
“Well, you turn right, go onto Bells Road, keep going, yeah, and you know the chemist on the right, the bus stops right there”
He listens.
“Yeah, the chemist, on the right the bus stops right there, just get on the bus”
Honestly, I’m not sure how much more of this I can take.
My book, long forgotten, is put into my bag and I myself begin to get fidgety. What station are we at? It’s too dark and there are too many people blocking the window. The time on my phone tells me it’s almost time to switch to the Underground.
I get up, train still moving, and squeeze past the offensive one. He’s still blathering.
“So we’re going to the King’s Crown, well the 9-1-9 stops right outside…get out there”
As I pass him, I have the urge to squeeze his head and shout in his face, but I don’t, because there are certain things one shouldn’t do on a train or tube.
The review goes well and later that week my flight leaves on time.
Happy Christmas.
Enter a twitching man.
There’s something about him. I don’t know if it’s the dreadful trainers, the very blue jeans or the gold chain that’s dangling from his neck but there’s definitely something about him. He boards the carriage and like a jerk looks for a seat. He plops alongside me.
He smells of cigarettes.
The smell of fags mixed with morning damp is revolting.
He leafs through his Metro like he’s inspecting legal documents. He’s back and forth, fidgeting with himself, up, down, cough, sniff.
I can’t read like this. It’s Thursday morning, how did I end up spending what should be the most civilised part of the day in the company of halfwits like this?
His phone rings, blessed relief for the poor bastard, finally he has something that’s easy to concentrate on. It’s a dreadful ring tone; commercial dance/hip hop, the kind you’d hear in a niteclub for the thick and the lonely.
“Alright mate” He’s faux cockney and a shouter.
It appears the caller is returning an earlier missed call.
“I was just checking if you were still on for tonight”
It’s only slightly after 7 am.
The conversation continues loudly, and infuriatingly. His friend is still able to meet after work – at least 8 hours from now – but is unsure about how to get to their previously agreed rendezvous point. Bad news for those within earshot, in this case the entire carriage, I’m bearing a fair brunt of it though.
“You need the get 9-1-9 mate”
“Nah, it’s easy. The 9-1-9, right by the chemist. You know the chemist on the Bells Road, it stops right outside there”
Pause.
“You there?”
He looks at his phone. I notice his screensaver is a woman in a purple bikini. She looks pretty. I wonder if it’s his girlfriend. Some girls have dreadful taste in my experience so I wouldn’t be surprised.
He calls back.
“Yeah mate, it went crap I don’t know why.”
I don’t know why a man with a voice as dreadful as this one gets to talk on the phone.
He continues…
“The 9-1-9…”
He has a way of saying that number. I want to scream at him. Can I stress again that it’s about ten past seven in the morning. PHONE HIM AT LUNCH TIME YOU FUCKWIT, I want to scream.
To othersI must look like another listless passenger but on the inside I am full of rage.
“You know where you work”
Moron, moron, moron.
“Well, you turn right, go onto Bells Road, keep going, yeah, and you know the chemist on the right, the bus stops right there”
He listens.
“Yeah, the chemist, on the right the bus stops right there, just get on the bus”
Honestly, I’m not sure how much more of this I can take.
My book, long forgotten, is put into my bag and I myself begin to get fidgety. What station are we at? It’s too dark and there are too many people blocking the window. The time on my phone tells me it’s almost time to switch to the Underground.
I get up, train still moving, and squeeze past the offensive one. He’s still blathering.
“So we’re going to the King’s Crown, well the 9-1-9 stops right outside…get out there”
As I pass him, I have the urge to squeeze his head and shout in his face, but I don’t, because there are certain things one shouldn’t do on a train or tube.
The review goes well and later that week my flight leaves on time.
Happy Christmas.
Saturday, 11 December 2010
Tuesday evening
The Teacher is at book club. The fridge is empty. The plastic storage box we use to keep the ironing in is full of ironing. These things all involve my home life, but I haven’t switched that part on yet. I am still at the office.
Finally I leave, in a mad rush. My grandmother is arriving on Friday morning. The spare room needs to be prepared. We call it spare not because it is spare space but because spare things that have no place to go, go there.
I am going spare.
The trains are a nightmare. This is not unusual. When the weather turns, train companies seem to go into meltdown. The rain, the leaves, the cold, the shock of it wasn’t this dark yesterday morning.
Oxford Circus has closed its gates. As they do every evening. A lazy admission of failure; Oxford Circus cannot handle its passengers. Oxford Street; close your shops, the system isn’t working.
I am working though and so am forced to stand like a sheep in the rain, huddled next to strangers, some smoking, some smelly, some pretty, for long minutes and minutes while the Underground sort themselves out.
The gates open. The concourse is clear but the platform is a mess. A train is held, full of people. The platform is full of even more people. I find space, put my bag between my legs and wait. People shove past me in every direction. The sign still says ‘Held’. I wait.
Ten minutes and three full-to-the-brim trains later and I am on my way, squashed between two Italian twentysomethings, a weary businessman and faceless others. Between stations 2 and 3, the train stops. The driver announces something. We wait. The young Italians don’t know the rules and talk to each other, like they’re at the beach or something.
We move again and then stop again and so it continues. Until I am at another platform, off the tube, waiting for a train; this platform is also very overcrowded. I manoeuvre for position. I need to get on the next train; the house needs to be prepared for Granny Sheila.
I am on the train. The train stops, again not at a station. There is a simultaneous frustrated intake of breath, an indecipherable driver announcement and then deadly silence. It moves again. Repeat thrice.
Finally, the train begins to empty. I sit down, check my phone and breathe out. I take out my book, Big Sur by Jack Kerouac, I’m two chapters in and struggling, I love On The Road but I’d forgotten how long Kerouac’s sentences can be.
Anyway, I’m finding it difficult to concentrate – the evening of cleaning and the thought of showing my almost 80 year old grandmother around London is distracting me. The guy sitting opposite isn’t helping either.
In his forties, with slightly curly hair, he looks like a geologist, a pretty successful one. He has an air of confidence about him and is sitting with his legs crossed and has papers on this lap. His dangling foot is in my eye line.
His fold-up bike is also blocking the seat and I nearly fell over it when I was sitting down; minus further commuter points.
Maybe because the train isn’t packed or maybe because I’m off tomorrow I don’t fill up with rage. He’s annoying but has a certain friendly charm too. I forgive him and try to get on with my book.
Two minutes later, I look up. The geologist is staring at the papers in his lap. He has an odd, bewildered look on his face. He has a pencil in his hand. He’s making a list. I love lists. Reading them and making them. Watching someone make a list is something I am very interested in doing.
His manly geologist legs are folded in a peculiar way that is restricting my view. I can see though that the list is half printed half written, in pencil. This list was so important it was started at work and then printed it off to be continued on the train. This is no shopping list.
I adjust my position for a better view but still can’t read anything. It’s a list of sentences not words or names. What list is made of sentences? It could be a brainstorming list of ideas I think but his pensiveness makes me think otherwise. The train begins slowing.
I like this man and am disappointed as he begins to make leaving movements. As he uncrosses his legs and faces me more directly he looks less like a geologist. He could be anything really, he’s a middle-aged man who isn’t poor and doesn’t wear a suit to work.
As he gets up and begins to fold his bike, The List is revealed for a quick second, it’s enough time for me to see number one.
Every day is the same.
Finally I leave, in a mad rush. My grandmother is arriving on Friday morning. The spare room needs to be prepared. We call it spare not because it is spare space but because spare things that have no place to go, go there.
I am going spare.
The trains are a nightmare. This is not unusual. When the weather turns, train companies seem to go into meltdown. The rain, the leaves, the cold, the shock of it wasn’t this dark yesterday morning.
Oxford Circus has closed its gates. As they do every evening. A lazy admission of failure; Oxford Circus cannot handle its passengers. Oxford Street; close your shops, the system isn’t working.
I am working though and so am forced to stand like a sheep in the rain, huddled next to strangers, some smoking, some smelly, some pretty, for long minutes and minutes while the Underground sort themselves out.
The gates open. The concourse is clear but the platform is a mess. A train is held, full of people. The platform is full of even more people. I find space, put my bag between my legs and wait. People shove past me in every direction. The sign still says ‘Held’. I wait.
Ten minutes and three full-to-the-brim trains later and I am on my way, squashed between two Italian twentysomethings, a weary businessman and faceless others. Between stations 2 and 3, the train stops. The driver announces something. We wait. The young Italians don’t know the rules and talk to each other, like they’re at the beach or something.
We move again and then stop again and so it continues. Until I am at another platform, off the tube, waiting for a train; this platform is also very overcrowded. I manoeuvre for position. I need to get on the next train; the house needs to be prepared for Granny Sheila.
I am on the train. The train stops, again not at a station. There is a simultaneous frustrated intake of breath, an indecipherable driver announcement and then deadly silence. It moves again. Repeat thrice.
Finally, the train begins to empty. I sit down, check my phone and breathe out. I take out my book, Big Sur by Jack Kerouac, I’m two chapters in and struggling, I love On The Road but I’d forgotten how long Kerouac’s sentences can be.
Anyway, I’m finding it difficult to concentrate – the evening of cleaning and the thought of showing my almost 80 year old grandmother around London is distracting me. The guy sitting opposite isn’t helping either.
In his forties, with slightly curly hair, he looks like a geologist, a pretty successful one. He has an air of confidence about him and is sitting with his legs crossed and has papers on this lap. His dangling foot is in my eye line.
His fold-up bike is also blocking the seat and I nearly fell over it when I was sitting down; minus further commuter points.
Maybe because the train isn’t packed or maybe because I’m off tomorrow I don’t fill up with rage. He’s annoying but has a certain friendly charm too. I forgive him and try to get on with my book.
Two minutes later, I look up. The geologist is staring at the papers in his lap. He has an odd, bewildered look on his face. He has a pencil in his hand. He’s making a list. I love lists. Reading them and making them. Watching someone make a list is something I am very interested in doing.
His manly geologist legs are folded in a peculiar way that is restricting my view. I can see though that the list is half printed half written, in pencil. This list was so important it was started at work and then printed it off to be continued on the train. This is no shopping list.
I adjust my position for a better view but still can’t read anything. It’s a list of sentences not words or names. What list is made of sentences? It could be a brainstorming list of ideas I think but his pensiveness makes me think otherwise. The train begins slowing.
I like this man and am disappointed as he begins to make leaving movements. As he uncrosses his legs and faces me more directly he looks less like a geologist. He could be anything really, he’s a middle-aged man who isn’t poor and doesn’t wear a suit to work.
As he gets up and begins to fold his bike, The List is revealed for a quick second, it’s enough time for me to see number one.
Every day is the same.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)