The Journey

I'm sitting on the train at the station waiting for it to move off. A little girl, about ten-years-old, is standing in the aisle, crying. People crane their necks and stare at her. No one asks. I see a woman on the platform peering at the girl through the glass window, smiling. My mind works overtime. Has she put the child on the train? Is the poor kid being sent to live with an austere aunt because her mother is dying of some incurable disease? Is she being sent to boarding school? The child is now almost hysterical. People still look. No one moves. I am about to get up when I clock what's going on. The mother has stepped off the train and can't get back on cos the door's jammed. I sigh. It's okay. This is a small, country station of two platforms. The train won't go off without her. The station manager soon sorts it out and the child flings herself at her mother.

I'm on my way for what I like to call my 'city fix' which means I've spent too long in the countryside and my brain now resembles a tin of Harry Ramsden's chip shop mushy peas. I need stimulation - fast. I like taking the train. It offers opportunities to observe people and wonder who they are and where they are going. Already my brain is percolating.

This particular 'city fix' is a trip to Birmingham to see New Zealand music/comedy duo 'The Flight of the Conchords' I feel a tingle of excitement. I've been too long amongst the sheep and fields.

The woman sitting in front of me is in her 60s and she's tap, tapping on her laptop. Across the aisle another woman carries a large red and cream holdall. She looks very smart. I wonder where she's going.

The refreshment man pushes his trolley into view. The mother with the sobbing child buys crisps and coke to placate her daughter, who is still sniffling. The lady with the red and cream holdall buys a tuna sandwich - she insists on brown bread - and a bottle of water. The refreshment man smells of expensive cologne, his scent fills the carriage. I'm impressed (it doesn't take much!)

The woman puts in her ear plugs and gazes out of the window. I feel no such urge to gaze. I know out there will be fields and sheep and perhaps cows. I'm desperate for civilization. Cluttered rows of houses and gardens. Some neat and well cared for, others a jumble of weeds and bramble with perhaps an old, wavey plastic washing line running through them. Behind those doors and gardens are people. People with different lives, different stories to tell. I hunger for that.

CAERSWS. NEWTOWN. WELSHPOOL. Fields. Fields. Fields. Some green. Others covered in white trips of polythene to protect what grows beneath. Some full of yellow rapeseed.

The train hits SHREWSBURY and the fields begin to disappear. Lots of people get on, grabbing what few seats remain (it's only a two carriage train). People and suitcases are pushed past me. A teenage boy drags his backpack. The music coming from his Ipod is so loud. I think he'll be sorry when he's in his 60s and needs a hearing aid. I don't supposed he gives a fig about being 60. He probably think he'll be young forever - didn't I? Although the area around the station looks post apocalyptic with rust and rumble, the brick walls now have painted panels. It looks like Banksy has paid a visit. I wonder what the men that toiled over that brickwork would make of it all.

WELLINGTON. People on. the platforms are beginning to look different. Citified as opposed to countrified. TELFORD. I see housing estates and gardens and shops like Asda and Tesco. People. Lots of people.

The young bloke behind me is talking into his phone. He's bragging about the five grand extra he got at work. I wonder why people feel the need to broadcast their personal stuff to everyone.
I want to lean over my seat and say, 'look, mate. It's only five grand. If it was five million or even fifty grand it would be worth letting the entire Arriva train know about it.'

I now want to go to the loo but I hate train toilets. They are old and smelly and I'm always worried the door hasn't locked properly and some one will come along and punch the button and I'll be there in mid-wee for everyone to see. And if I do feel it's locked I worry it won't open again. I think I'll wait.

The trains chugs purposefully into WOLVERHAMPTON. I see streets of terraced houses and canals with people fishing. And then all too soon we approach BIRMINGHAM. Crumbling buildings. Abandoned warehouses. Graffiti. Clumps of purple Buddliea beside the tracks. Weeds growing through concrete. Dirty brickwork and dusty walls. Diesel fumes.

I step off the train and breathe in the toxic air and think 'Aah. Wonderful!'