where art collides philosoperontap

The god forsaken railway line. Choose any one. They aren’t built for luxury. Back of the tenement, cement works, coal depot. No mobile signal. The long gaps in productivity a distraction. For productivity read connectivity. Don’t get me wrong. I like the fields. The countryside races by. Hares, deer even. Get up cows. Whadda you know!? Trees and hedgerows blurr. Warehouses clad in unattractive light grey. Golf course. Don‘t ask me where. Annoying private conversation spoken to all. Irritating sounds coming from someone’s mobile phone. I wonder what’s in that field. Cabbages? The harvest is under way. Hay. I hope he is getting off before me. Wondering whether to ask him to turn the sound off. This train is for Stanstead Airport. I’m not going all the way. Leicester. Fwiw. Was easier to drive to Leicester and catch a single direct train to Birmingham than to get a train to Newark, bus from Newark to East Midlands Parkway, train to Derby then one more connection to Brum. Either Brum is difficult to get to or Lincoln is. The bloke is overweight and has greasy hair. My dislike for him wasn’t instant. It has grown. Proportional to the length of time he has been in the same compartment. It isn’t that I don’t like train journeys. Far easier than going by car. There is standing room only in Standard Class. Popular line.