Train Life

Traveling by train is something no one enjoys, other than groups of cackling middle aged women on shopping trips, laden with bags and packed lunches, or small children, although admittedly their excitement has a shelf life of about thirty minutes. Everything about train travel is dull, filthy and frankly depressing, but for some of us it’s an unfortunate necessity of working life. Every winter from October through to May I use trains to commute from Devon to Southampton, up by 5.15 and back home by 8.45, four or five days a week. And yes like millions of other commuters up and down the country it on the whole gets me down, but at times I do find it and my fellow commuters fascinating and often highly amusing.

Train stations are gritty dark places, and frankly Southampton’s has got to be one of the worst, every surface covered in grime. Here at the station your journey into the world of the commuter begins; for years I’ve travelled on this route and in all that time I’ve never come through the place without at least half of it boarded up or sprouting scaffolding, quite often adorned with placards applauding the great renovations going on, or fanciful artists impressions of the long awaited, but never finished article, half the time these same placards are up for so long they need renovating themselves. Around your feet pigeons peck away at the thin pickings, above more roost in the rafters, and so many have missing, or deformed feet, a daft thought pops in to my mind, I wonder if they’ve caught them in the doors.

Then there are the cafes; too few staff to serve and clear only equals tables and bins overflowing by the evening rush hour, only the foolhardy eat here. Processed sandwiches tasting more of the chemicals used to extend their shelf life than any of the fanciful stated fillings, ‘real’ Cornish pasties that no self respecting Cornishman would go near, and Danish pastries consisting of more sugar than pastry. Buy a tea or coffee and you’re presented with yet another loyalty card, what is it with cafes these days, everywhere I go I seem to gain these bloody things, I have a wallet full of them, half the time I forget which is for which, only last week I presented 5 each with a single stamp on them, after much grumbling about the rain forest I was presented with my free tea. I ran off to add the sugar, but not before noticing the daggers I was getting from the middle aged tart behind me, no doubt another bloody eco warrior, it you’re that worried about the rain forest you should bring your own mug, Christ, I mean how many paper cups do this lot get through each year!

Out on to the platform, here I see my fellow commuters amongst the crowds, for years I’ve seen the same people, not that we ever speak to each other, not the done thing don’t you know, commuters are all the same, in their private little bubbles. The train starts pulling in to the station and then you spot them slowly moving through the crowds with real stealth to the exact spot the door opens, always first on. On the train they’ll always sit on the outside, bag taking up the seat by the window, ensuring few will ever ask to sit down next to them, ipods in, kindles out. To no avail tonight though, yet another breakdown means an asthmatic old two coach train instead of the usual six, think pint in a thimble and you’ll get the idea, chivalry goes out the window as it becomes obvious that not all will get on the train, elbows pushing, got a large case and you’ll never get it pass the crush, I stand squeezed into the corner for the half an hour to Salisbury, getting off is more of the same, I’m more carried than pushed off the train, I shoot past another of my fellow commuters, busy taking photos of the crush on his iphone, “that’s another one they’ll get” he shouts as I stumble past, I have no idea who, or what he’s talking about, “quite right” I reply for want of a better answer, mulling over, not for the first time the fact that the only time commuters speak to each other is to share a winge at the late running of trains, or missed connections.

Talking of which I shoot a glance towards the overhead information board, bugger I’ve less than a minute to make it to platform 4, off I dash, weaving past an old lady with wheeled case larger than her, straight into the back of a twat with a mobile phone, what is it with these idiots, always slowing to a crawl every ten yards, head down thumbs flying. I arrive on the platform breathless just as the train pulls in; sod it the kids have got there before me! By kids I mean hundreds of noisy little artful dodgers, no matter how hard you try ten of the little gits will squeeze past you and on to the train first, taking up all the tables. Fresh out the school gates and full of energy, shouting and giggling all the way to Templecombe. A rather overweight matron with a sour face berates them to be quiet; she’s greeted by a chorus of sniggers, I think I preferred the giggling, shaking my head I realize she’s looking towards me, I busy myself shuffling the contents of my bag and looking out the window.

Bored as ever I cast my eye over my fellow commuters, there’s ‘Mad Anny’ 2 two seats down, a perpetually angry girl, lanky bleached hair, grimy jeans, walking boots and old sweatshirt struggling to cover her ample love handles, as ever loudly arguing with her mum on the phone, as the train is packed a yuppie puppy, all suit and laptop case attempts to sit next to her, stupid boy, “fuck off you pervert” emerges through gritted teeth, she barely pauses before continuing her argument with her phone, the boy moves off in search of a safer seat. And then there’s the ‘Peddling Crane’ fast asleep opposite me, all six foot plus of his gangly frame squeezed into the widow seat, as ever asleep, head back, mouth open dribbling down the widow. It’s the same in the mornings, five minutes before we get in he wakes up and starts his morning routine, on goes the scarf, bright yellow windcheater, sports goggles and aerodynamic helmet, up goes the volume on his ipod heavy rock seeping past his ear buds, he stamps his cycling shoes on to the floor of the carriage and bashes his gloved hands together, physicking himself up by his expensive racing bike as he waits for the doors to open, impossibly long thin legs clad in black Ronhills, head bobbing. At the end of the carriage is the ‘Paper Thief’, an elf like little old man who also gets on a Salisbury, another expert he loiters in just the right spot on the platform, black Mack done up to the neck, tie just so, brown Hushpuppy’s and old battered briefcase by his side, as the train pulls in he makes his move and I make mine, if he gets on before me he’ll perform is nightly ritual of moving through the carriage grabbing every Evening Standard and Metro along the way, only to pile them up by his seat, git! All of us have our routines, I, along with many others just doze, jerking upright, eyes wide, as the train pulls in to each and every station, kept awake by the dreaded thought of oversleeping and ending up in Waterloo. Then there are the ‘home birds’ like the ‘Little Marketer’ who settles in and takes up the whole table. In his late forties, plump frame on little legs, Chelsea boots, 501’s and check shirt open at the neck, pinstripe jacket folded carefully on the rack above. Out comes the Apple mac laptop, iphone and a copy of the Independent, a paper cup of mucha-fuca-costa-crap coffee at his elbow, he adjusts his D&G’s on his nose and types away at impossible speeds the entire journey.

Just as the train begins to thin out a commuters worst nightmare occurs, my now empty table is invaded by the ‘family on holiday’, Mr. and Mrs. lardass sit opposite and their impossibly large daughter sits next to me, body slamming me into the window, her baby is dumped on the table to roam freely, I quickly clutch my bag to my chest, bad move as they now take that as a queue to begin there mid evening grazing, out come the sandwiches, baby food and ‘thank the lord’ bottled milk, Miss lardass breast feeding is not something the world at large should have to endure. Oh great here comes the ‘trolley-dolly’, he must have had a sixth sense to tell him there were customers ready to part with their hard earned cash for his luke warm fares, he normally spends his entire journey hiding in first class. “Tea mum, great”, before you know it the table is awash in squashed teabags and empty milk cartons, the slops roll dangerously close to me. There’s nothing for it I’ll have to make a run for it, “excuse me I just need to use the toilet…” The daughter gets up, baby under one arm, sandwich grasped between teeth, mobile in hand. I squeeze past her, catch sight of a bloody great tattoo above her skintight leggings; thank go you don’t pay for tattoos by the square inch. I head in the direction of the next carriage; past the ‘Little Marketer’ who I now see is in fact playing ‘Angry Birds’ on his laptop. I of course walk straight past the toilets and into the next carriage, and so on until I finally give up and take a seat next to a snoring city sort, by the doors, the worst place to sit, drafty and noisy at every stop. Just as I start to doze he needs to get out, so I’m up again, I look around and the train is starting to thin out so I move on to a table in the middle and slump down knackered, next stop Honiton. As I leave the train I notice that I’m, as usual, pretty much the last person in my carriage, gathering my coat and bag I make my way into the car park, it’s dark cold and trying to rain, pulling my collar up around my ears I walk over to the wife’s car, “good journey, darling?” she asks, “Oh, same as ever love, same as ever, what about you, how’s your day been?”

Posted by Brent Meheux - 28/12/11 - Tags - train, commuting

There are no comments

To leave a comment please feel free to email me