Whenever I have travelled to London, invariably I go by rail - now I shamelessly flourish my senior railcard - I sink into my seat, listening to Chrsyta Bell on my tiny headphones - I buy a latte from the beautiful polska who comes round with the trolley - I crackle the pages of my Independent - the huge fields north of Winchester fly past - I think of all the times I have boarded trains to Waterloo -
When I was a student, I would huddle up close to the steamed up window - I would catch the Waterloo Train from Portsmouth Harbour Station - my bag would be full of newly washed clothes - my latest essay would be full of long sentences and semi colons -
Approaching London, I would stare out at the brightly lit windows of houses by the side of the railway - the sight of all those illuminated rooms always filled me with sadness - it was as though I was the only person in the world - all those figures I saw around me were just clever shadows -
I can still recall how I felt, even now - when I cross the station concourse, under the ageless clock, sometimes I think I am wearing a suit of loneliness, my voice unheard, my body made of smoke -
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