The Train to Nowhere

I was on a train home from Oxford this evening. At the start of the journey, there was a group of lean young men with clever faces, studying books and jotting notes, ensuring a glittering future for themselves. Behind them was a grey suit with white hair, bags under his eyes and a lost expression. He must have been missing the buffet car, as he was meticulously scooping bogeys out of his nose and popping them into his mouth. He needn't have been so thoughtful, the floor was pretty bad and no one would have noticed if he'd dropped them. It was coated in the detritus of the day; a torn back page from a newspaper with a headline screaming bad news for a local club; a sweet wrapper, and a crushed can rolling past a dehydrating gobbit of phlegm.

There was very little relief to the monotony of the journey, apart from listening to the inappropriate intonation of the automated announcements. They made the prospect of arriving at Feltham so exciting, even the bacteria in the gobbit must have wanted to get off.

I made the mistake of visiting the 'restroom'. The door didn't lock and necessitated an awkward sitting position with one foot wedged to prevent intruders entering. It was tricky to wash my hands as there was a beer bottle rolling around in the sink. It was all accompanied by the gagging smell of testosterone laden urine that covered most of the floor. I went back to my seat, past a couple of ticket inspectors bemoaning the drunkards that always came out with the same excuses for not having valid tickets, and how intimidating it was dealing with them. They were so engrossed in their conversation, they missed a youth swaying past them towards the 'bathroom' with one hand clamped round a half drunk bottle of Lambrini. I had to admire the sensitivity of his 'nose', that he felt he would be better able to appreciate the subtle blend of grapes over the stench of dried piss. It would make for an interesting conversation in the off licence, 'Could you suggest a cheeky little rose to compliment the aroma of a train toilet?'. Perhaps, I thought hopefully, he was going to the toilet to tip it away. No, a few moments later he came staggering back to kindly share the beverage among his friends, who I noticed were all too polite to remark on the lack of wine glasses.

My station was approaching, so I made for the perspex partitions that carried the greasy fingerprints of previous train travel victims. As I waited to get off, I heard one woman ask her friend, 'Where are we in then?'.

The friend replied, 'We're in nowhere. We're in Twickenham'.