I love taking the train. People sometimes ask why I don't learn to drive, as that way I wouldn't have to rely on public transport. But I like relying on public transport. When you arrive at the train station for a long journey you know you're going to experience the whole kaleidoscope of human emotion:
Frustration at a delayed train, joy at having a seat to yourself, anger, happiness, whimsy, jobsworths, vomit, screaming children, all day breakfast bar.
Plus there's always a real possibility that due to a crowded carriage from Clapham Junction to Reading a fit girl will have to sit next to you. That doesn't happen when you're driving a car unless you already know a fit girl. And if you're reading or writing this Blog then you probably don't know a fit girl.
On a train journey you can plan out your entire life, read a great piece of literature or simply get leathered on small bottles of wine while the beautiful British countryside and naff provincial towns whizz past at no physical exhaustion on your part. On a train journey you can witness arguments and flirtation. Business deals are made and relationships broken. It's like EastEnders but with a fucking buffet car.
On my last train journey I was sitting at a four seater table. I don't usually favour the four seater as it trebles your chance of human interaction but I had a laptop and wanted to take advantage of the space. Opposite me were a couple in their thirties. Judging from their body language and the way they looked at each they were unmarried but had been together for a long time. If their relationship wasn't at a crossroads now then a crossroads was certainly an instruction away on the Sat Nav.
Both seemed faintly nervous but he in particular seemed uneasy in his own skin. She would occasionally reach into her bag for her phone and stroke away at it's face in a smooth motion, where he would struggle for it in his back pocket, stare at it as though he was from the past, and then return it to his back pocket only for it to vibrate again a few minutes later.
When the inspector reached their seat the girl handed the tickets over and I could tell she always took care of this sort of thing. It just saved time if she handled all the practical stuff like train tickets, then there wouldn't be any confusion over who had them, would there? The inspector moved on and they smiled at each other. A smile that said “I am so fucking bored of you and your hair and your hobbies and your friends.”
The journey passed without event for about ten minutes until the inspector returned and asked to see their ticket again. This wasn't planned. In the flat lining heart monitor of their lives this was a blip. An actual blip. The woman look confused and the ticket inspector looked confused as recognition returned to him. The man had a look of hunger. A crease had appeared under his eye lids that obviously hadn't wrinkled for many years.
“This prick's thought of a joke,” I thought, switching off my film and removing my headphones, “the ticket inspector is going to realise his mistake and this bloke is going to have a joke ready.”
This was a big moment in the life of Simon and Katrina (as I named them). In years to come, together or apart, they would look back at this moment as a pivotal one. The moment their relationship was made or broken. As they sit together in their retirement villa in the south of France, sipping wine in the evening sunshine as their grandchildren frolic in the pool and their children fuss over them, they will look back to this train journey as the moment that carved S + K onto the tree of love forever.
On their wedding day the vows they had written themselves would make reference to Simon's witticism on that fateful train journey that had rekindled their passion for each other's company. As he carried her over the threshold of their marital home he would allow himself a wry chuckle at the joke that had brought them back from the brink. On Simon's deathbed, as he prepared to check out for the last time after a long and happy life of wine and roses and more love than he thought his heart could take, Katrina would hold onto his frail hand with her own and ask him, one last time, to repeat that oh so simple, oh so run of the mill, but oh so special little observation. Just one last time. A final moment of levity in tribute to the love they had shared, and the life they had built together from such humble beginnings into this. This Arcadia of love, this great city of trust and happiness.
“Sorry, I've checked you already haven't I?” The inspector said, embarrassed.
“That's alright mate, the ticket collector always rings twice!”
There was an awkward silence as the words sank in.
“Oh no, it's the postman isn't it. The postman always rings twice. Shit?”
Another silence fell, the ticket inspector forced a weak smile and Katrina looked on with a bitter cocktail of pity and boredom. The pause stretched on for what felt like forever, until it was broken by a machine gun fire of laughter from me.
The tension was immediately broken, the ticket collector smiled and Katrina gave Simon a playful nudge and leaned against his shoulder. The train pulled into Birmingham New Street and I left the train, confident that Simon and Katrina would remain together, for the rest of their lives.
So that's why I fucking like trains. Because of the greatest love story ever told. So you can take your Jeremy Clarkson column, your boring conversations about Formula One and your £20 per driving lesson and drive off.
Frustration at a delayed train, joy at having a seat to yourself, anger, happiness, whimsy, jobsworths, vomit, screaming children, all day breakfast bar.
Plus there's always a real possibility that due to a crowded carriage from Clapham Junction to Reading a fit girl will have to sit next to you. That doesn't happen when you're driving a car unless you already know a fit girl. And if you're reading or writing this Blog then you probably don't know a fit girl.
On a train journey you can plan out your entire life, read a great piece of literature or simply get leathered on small bottles of wine while the beautiful British countryside and naff provincial towns whizz past at no physical exhaustion on your part. On a train journey you can witness arguments and flirtation. Business deals are made and relationships broken. It's like EastEnders but with a fucking buffet car.
On my last train journey I was sitting at a four seater table. I don't usually favour the four seater as it trebles your chance of human interaction but I had a laptop and wanted to take advantage of the space. Opposite me were a couple in their thirties. Judging from their body language and the way they looked at each they were unmarried but had been together for a long time. If their relationship wasn't at a crossroads now then a crossroads was certainly an instruction away on the Sat Nav.
Both seemed faintly nervous but he in particular seemed uneasy in his own skin. She would occasionally reach into her bag for her phone and stroke away at it's face in a smooth motion, where he would struggle for it in his back pocket, stare at it as though he was from the past, and then return it to his back pocket only for it to vibrate again a few minutes later.
When the inspector reached their seat the girl handed the tickets over and I could tell she always took care of this sort of thing. It just saved time if she handled all the practical stuff like train tickets, then there wouldn't be any confusion over who had them, would there? The inspector moved on and they smiled at each other. A smile that said “I am so fucking bored of you and your hair and your hobbies and your friends.”
The journey passed without event for about ten minutes until the inspector returned and asked to see their ticket again. This wasn't planned. In the flat lining heart monitor of their lives this was a blip. An actual blip. The woman look confused and the ticket inspector looked confused as recognition returned to him. The man had a look of hunger. A crease had appeared under his eye lids that obviously hadn't wrinkled for many years.
“This prick's thought of a joke,” I thought, switching off my film and removing my headphones, “the ticket inspector is going to realise his mistake and this bloke is going to have a joke ready.”
This was a big moment in the life of Simon and Katrina (as I named them). In years to come, together or apart, they would look back at this moment as a pivotal one. The moment their relationship was made or broken. As they sit together in their retirement villa in the south of France, sipping wine in the evening sunshine as their grandchildren frolic in the pool and their children fuss over them, they will look back to this train journey as the moment that carved S + K onto the tree of love forever.
On their wedding day the vows they had written themselves would make reference to Simon's witticism on that fateful train journey that had rekindled their passion for each other's company. As he carried her over the threshold of their marital home he would allow himself a wry chuckle at the joke that had brought them back from the brink. On Simon's deathbed, as he prepared to check out for the last time after a long and happy life of wine and roses and more love than he thought his heart could take, Katrina would hold onto his frail hand with her own and ask him, one last time, to repeat that oh so simple, oh so run of the mill, but oh so special little observation. Just one last time. A final moment of levity in tribute to the love they had shared, and the life they had built together from such humble beginnings into this. This Arcadia of love, this great city of trust and happiness.
“Sorry, I've checked you already haven't I?” The inspector said, embarrassed.
“That's alright mate, the ticket collector always rings twice!”
There was an awkward silence as the words sank in.
“Oh no, it's the postman isn't it. The postman always rings twice. Shit?”
Another silence fell, the ticket inspector forced a weak smile and Katrina looked on with a bitter cocktail of pity and boredom. The pause stretched on for what felt like forever, until it was broken by a machine gun fire of laughter from me.
The tension was immediately broken, the ticket collector smiled and Katrina gave Simon a playful nudge and leaned against his shoulder. The train pulled into Birmingham New Street and I left the train, confident that Simon and Katrina would remain together, for the rest of their lives.
So that's why I fucking like trains. Because of the greatest love story ever told. So you can take your Jeremy Clarkson column, your boring conversations about Formula One and your £20 per driving lesson and drive off.
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