A Journey Home From Home, Pt. 2

As I stood waiting for the connecting train that would form the second and final leg of my admittedly rather short journey home, it suddenly occurred to me that railway stations are rather odd public spaces. Of course, the layout of a typical station is, for the most part, purely functional; that is to say, it makes perfect sense that any platforms should be located parallel to one another along either side of a set of railway lines. However, as a direct result of this simple logistical design, the passengers waiting on one platform inadvertently face those waiting on the other, and vice versa. This, in itself, isn't particularly odd. That is, until you take in to account the fact that in England we are subject to that most typical of social traits: "English reserve". Indeed, in a country whose populous are conditioned from birth to avoid unnecessary eye contact and outward displays of emotion, it seems almost cruel that railway stations are designed in such a way that people are forced to face each other for often extended periods of time. With this thought firmly in mind, I cautiously surveyed my opponents on the platform opposite and noticed that they, too, were doing the same. And at that precise moment, I couldn't help suppress the feeling that I was in fact standing on the front-line of some kind of bizarre trench war, gazing out across the literal no-man's land of the railway lines at an enemy who was just as helplessly immobilized as I. Thankfully, the train arrived shortly thereafter.

Unlike the last train I had traveled on, the one that I now entered was fairly busy; at least more so than I would have liked, which, I confess, is little more than empty (sleeping old age pensioners aside). It wasn't until I reached the fourth carriage that I found myself a seat sandwiched between a commuter in front of me, who was absorbed in paper work, and a university student behind, who was equally absorbed in a McDonald's paper bag. As far as travel companions go, I didn't have that much to complain about except for the fact that until that point I hadn't realised how hungry I was. Now whether or not I was actually hungry I am still not sure but, either way, the mere smell of food was enough to usurp my thoughts for the next five minutes. This was, surely, exacerbated by the fact that no more than a minute after the initial idea, a jolly voice emanated from the speakers above me advertising a variety of "snacks" and "beverages" as if my mind had just been read. Nevertheless, I managed to resist the urge to part with what little cash I had in exchange for what would have no doubt been a rather disappointing sandwich, courtesy of the 'cafe-bar', and once again pulled a book out of my satchel. "We may imagine the mind's greatest adventure as a journey of this sort to the paradise of pitfalls".

It wasn't long before I was interrupted from my reading by a strange looking man wearing a large woolly hat, who appeared to be talking out aloud to himself towards the front of the carriage. Slightly confused by this unexpected sight, I scanned the vicinity and identified four potential recipients in close proximity to the man. However, all of them appeared to be either staring absent-mindedly out of the window or trying to focus on whatever they had been reading up until this point. Although I would hazard a guess that they were all listening to some extent, I was also doubtful that any of them was supposed to be, and so I concluded that the man was simply either incredibly lonely or slightly mad; possibly both. Either way, I decided that as long as he was talking, I wasn't going to be able to concentrate on my reading and therefore I resorted to gazing out the window and watching as the world passed by. After observing little more than fields for the past half an hour, the first tentative signs of civilization served as a sign that the train was fast approaching the terminus that was to mark both the end of the railway line and the end of my excursion. I always find that it is this stage of a train journey that is the most interesting, for as the train closes in on it's target, passing from rurality to urbanality, the inquisitive passenger is offered a visual history of the expansion of the town or city outwards from its epicenter. For instance, I learnt that the outermost edge of this particular city is currently signified by a slew of relatively recently erected housing estates rather than the industrial sector that now precedes them. As the train drew ever closer to the station, I noticed that this pattern repeats itself many times over, almost without a fault, as if there has been a continuing battle for residential and industrial real estate throughout the city's history, which, I suppose, is at least partly true. Nevertheless, determining which came first is harder to say, after all, an increase in population anticipates an increase in demand for both housing and industry.

It was at this point that the aforementioned stranger, who had spent almost the entire journey incessantly talking to himself, stood up and removed his woolly hat. As he did so, I suddenly realised that he had in fact been wearing a bluetooth headset the whole time, which had been concealed from view, presumably unintentionally, by his somewhat peculiar choice of headgear. As a result, in just a matter of milliseconds my impression of him transformed from that of a strange looking, lonely and probably slightly mad man to that of merely a strange looking man. I guess context is everything. In any case, this thought soon left me as the railway station came in to view and I began to rummage through my wallet in search of my train ticket; the only physical reminder of my journey home from home.