Train Spotted

Sitting uncomfortably in a narrow seat that refuses to recline even the slightest bit, my unknown travelling companion, in the next chair, is equally or more physically distressed, the latter possibility more likely than not because of his bulk (indeed, he makes me, a rather pudgy 50-ish type, feel almost svelte). Whatever the relative merits of our individual suffering, there is no doubt that we are both pretty miserable. This is not your sleek modern train, it’s a three car special across the Styx, passenger comfort is not a criteria nor, it seems, is punctuality for this morning we are embarrassingly late; I will be one of those last arrivals to my office today, wandering in after everyone else has settled down to the new week, trying to look harried, as if I’ve just swam, climbed and fought my way through the wilderness to arrive here, dedicated to my work, anxious to be at the side of my brethren as we do the company’s bidding.

My eyes feel red; I got up before the dairy farmers. I’ve tried to work some but there is no room to spread out and I’m not in the mood to read so I just stare blankly ahead where there is a row of three folding seats that are, if possible, even more uncomfortable than the one I’m occupying. Those three must be miserable because they are the absolute last to be filled and, indeed, we pass a number of stations without even one being occupied (the option of clambering over someone on the aisle to take a window being preferable). Ultimately, though, they fill up and, as we near London, amazingly, one is occupied by a Vision.

Withdrawn, unapproachable the way a beautiful woman must learn to be (or so most of them have always seemed to me), a woman from the 1960’s occupies the seat in front of me. She is the pinnacle of the ‘60’s ideal – Julie Christie, Twiggy. Her black hair is straight and hangs around her shoulders, nothing out of place. She has bangs that complete the frame around a face that comes straight out of a dream about the women of that decade. Her eyes are large and blue with long, black lashes. Her skin is pale and unblemished.

I suppose I’m so tired that I can’t help staring but the Vision seems oblivious, she doesn’t even move her head in irritated acknowledgement of my stares. After a couple of minutes respite from the real world, restfully letting my gaze linger on the Madonna face, I realise what I’m doing and re-focus, moving my eyes about but, they keep coming back, glancing at the Vision. She’s real but so very far away.

Then, as we near London, she moves for the first time (Pygmalion lives), reaches down and opens her purse from where she takes out, astoundingly, cigarette papers and a pouch of Bugler cigarette tobacco. Delicate fingers then begin to roll precisely judged pinches of the tobacco into cigarettes. She continues this, each new fire-stick very nearly identical to the previous one, until we begin to slow down to dock at Paddington. The tannoy bleats the announcement of our arrival, she folds up her papers and the pouch of tobacco and places the bespoke cigarettes into a silverish holder, rises, ethereal – and, now, very real and earthy – her bag stuffed with cheap, hand-rolled smokes and then, the door open, delicately picks her way into the crowd and out of my life.