A Journey Home From Home, Pt. 1

The train is due to arrive at the station at eighteen minutes past three. I had been casually reminding myself of this simple fact every so often for the past few hours. In fact, I had repeated it with such regularity since lunchtime that it had become a personal mantra of sorts. Yet it just so happened that between half past two and five minutes to three, the period of time in which I had planned to leave the house, any thought of train times evaded my attention. And I mean that quite literally, for I am in no doubt that the words "train", "arrive" and "eighteen minutes past three" continued to spontaneously erupt in my consciousness from time to time; they just no longer carried the same weight. I suppose this is an inevitable consequence of repetition. For instance, it is for precisely the same reason that the more we hear a piece of music, whether or not we happen to like it, the less interesting it becomes. Of course, as the clock struck three, this rumination didn't provide any form of consolation in the slightest and so, after a very brief set of goodbyes, I left the house with both a heightened sense of purpose and a pair of untied shoes.

It wasn't until I reached the train station approximately fourteen and a half minutes later that I realised I had forgotten to tie my shoelaces. Then again, perhaps I had noticed but semi-consciously chosen to ignore the fact out of panic. Or stubbornness. Either way, it was a lucky coincidence, for the train arrived at precisely a quarter past the hour; half a minute after I arrived and three whole minutes before it was due. Given the fact that not twenty minutes beforehand I had consoled myself with the somewhat sad but nevertheless assured knowledge that the local train service almost always ran late, I was not mentally prepared to deal with the arrival of my train earlier than expected. Indeed, just to make sure you are under no illusions as to how shocking a phenomenon this was, I would have thought it miraculous if it had simply arrived on time. In any case, it was only after I found a seat by the window and watched as the familiar sights of home faded in the distance that I considered how fortunate I had been to forget to tie my shoelaces half an hour earlier. Such is life.

Some people tend to dislike travelling by train. I can certainly sympathise, after all, when confined to a small space for an extended period of time, you are at the mercy of others, which can be a rather daunting prospect. For example, there are few things worse than the vertiginous feeling of dread you experience when a family of screaming children and their negligent parents enter your carriage. Although having said that, if worse comes to worst and they do happen to sit down, there are few things better than the feeling of unbridled relief you subsequently experience when they get off the train at the next stop. In this sense, travelling by train can sometimes seem like a bit of a gamble. Fortunately, on this particular journey, I struck lucky. Aside from the occasional old age pensioner, who was either in the process of falling asleep or indeed sleeping, the carriage was mostly empty. And so I quite happily pulled a book out of my satchel and began reading: "Perhaps life needs to be deciphered like a cryptogram". It was at this point that I suddenly became aware of a voice coming from behind me. In retrospect, I am quite sure that I had been aware of this voice from the moment I stepped on the train, but at that precise moment something about it had piqued my interest. For the next few minutes, I listened as she, for the voice most definitely belonged to a woman, talked to three others about the two horses of one other (not present). From what I could gather, the owner of the horses was a trainer of some sort who traveled across the country with his prize possessions. Tragically, the older of the two horses had fallen ill and the trainer was faced with the grave decision to either submit his companion to a complicated and dangerous surgical operation or simply put him to sleep. For better or worse, he chose the latter and recently purchased a new horse in order to continue his business. However, it would seem that the bond between the deceased horse and his trainer could not be replicated and here, on this sad note, the story ended quite abruptly. This unexpected insight into the personal life of someone that I had never seen, and most likely never would, struck me as rather extraordinary.

As the train approached its final destination, the conductor, who had been busy strategically attempting to wake his elderly passengers in order to check their tickets, turned around and set off towards the front of the train. Half a minute later, his voice echoed throughout the carriage with the familiar refrain, "we will shortly be arriving at". I suppose it is a particular quality of the train conductor that he is both always moving, even when he isn't, and, similarly, he is always ahead, looking forward. With this thought in mind, I gathered my belongings and walked slowly down the aisle, all the while looking out of the window at the various buildings rushing by and reveling in the fact that I was travelling faster than my pace implied. As the train came to a halt, I performed that most ritualistic of tasks: checking that I had my phone, keys and wallet - in that order. Satisfied with the result, I stepped down on to that station platform; the symbolic act that marked the end of the first part of my journey home from home.