On the road again..

After purchasing a free range egg, free range mayonnaise, a free range tomato baguette in free range packaging, I sat down to read the copy of the Daily Mail that had been left at the table. The man in the suit that was sat in the corner scratched his face, perhaps pondering a presentation of some sort.

I scoped out the perimeters of the room like a thief in a jewelry store. Train station cafes tend to display a range of human versatility. All colours, creeds and walks of life are welcomed - but the pigeon was shooed away.

I looked at my receipt to check what time it was five minutes ago - as I had a train to catch. Whilst skimming my receipt for relevant and/or useless information I realised that I had paid 88 pence in V.A.T which seemed unreasonable.

A girl sat alone, staring into thin air with a gaze that screamed out "hopeless romantic". Her semi-abandoned suitcase seemed to be there just for appearance, it could have been empty for all it was worth to her.

A gaggle of students laughed obnoxiously at each others anecdotes of care free irresponsibility that repeatedly concluded with the last minute meetings of essay deadlines. The man in the suit continued to scratch his face. At this point I left the cafe to catch my train.

In busy times, choosing a coach is always a gamble and I am not a gambling man. The coach I initially chose (thinking I was gaining the upper hand on other passengers) was full of reserved seats. I pondered whether or not to settle for the fold down seat near the door (and the toilet) as I often have done so before, but I persevered ambitiously into the next coach, which was about two thirds capacitated and rapidly filling up from the opposite end. "This will do " I said to myself as I planted my back side on window seat 66.

The journey was solemn and surprisingly tranquil, I took in the rural landscapes that rest between big cities. I left the copy of the Daily Mail on the train.

I crossed the city centre with a wide flank manoeuvre in order to evade the strategic military tactical formation of the charity workers. I later calculated that it would cost me around £3000 per year to walk down the high street if I gave in to all their individual requests of £2 per month.

The bus ride was decorated sonically by the loud diesel engine, hydraulic brakes, regional colloquialisms and northern similes that always charm my ears. One that sticks out in my memory is; "It's like a whore's den in here". This was during my time working as a taxi driver when a middle aged lady compared the scent of her (already seated and equally middle aged) friends' perfume and other various products that middle aged women may use to spruce themselves up for a night out to the sinful oders of convenient refreshment and seedy seduction that linger in the chambers of a lady of the night. (Not that I would know anything about that.)

After some convenient refreshment's of my own, I headed back to the city centre to read poetry at the festival. I wondered what the man in the suit might be doing, or the hoplessly romantic girl, and what finally became of her semi-forsaken suitcase.




Submitted by David, The Collective