Every Picture Tells A Story #5

Half past two. Breakfast is finally ready. 

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.

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.