Civilised society

They climbed aboard in their hordes: the sweaty, the unwashed and the desparate. They'd patiently waited for the train to arrive, knowing it would be a free-for-all once it pulled in to their station. Emaciated young children in shorts and teeshirts were blocked by bulkier besuited 'gentlemen' as they tried to lay claim to the few remaining seats. Women with pushchairs were flattened against plastic partitions, marking them out as not worthy to mix with the regulars - they didn't complain, knowing their places in the ancient hierarchy. Those lucky enough to have food, displayed their fortune for all to see, licking their lips as the hungry looked on and then turned their weary heads away again. The doors slammed, people huddled against seats, to the obvious annoyance of their occupants, crouched on dirty, infested floors or tried to make themselves comfortable in tiny luggage racks - anything to avoid falling over as the train gathered speed. At least they were leaving Royston.

Javelins can go up and down

New 140 mph train from St Pancras named Javelin. Isn't this rather dangerous when most British travellers' memories will be of failed attempts at various Olympic Games where it 'faded away and died.' Bullet is over-used, admittedly, but isn't this just a slower euphemism for possible death by travel?

Good morning; I've got a new laptop

Good morning; I've got a new laptop. I know it's crowded here and there's barely room to move down the carriage but I thought I'd just stand in the entrance until I need to exit. Good morning; I've got a new laptop. I haven't switched it on yet because then the battery would begin to run out and it wouldn't be brand new - a bit like a newborn moving inevitably towards death once out of the womb of packaging. Good morning; I've got a new latop. I've opened up the screen so that you can see how much bigger it is than on most laptops. That has the handy advantage of obstructing you even more as you try to get on the train. Good morning; I've got a new laptop. It's a sign and a signpost, you've just got to look beyond the positioning.

Barry doesn't need to move

Barry doesn't need to move just because you've taken the seat next to him. Barry was born with his legs in a v-formation to protect his huge testicles which were God's gift to Barry and would be Barry's gift to all the women he reads about in magazines. Barry should have studied ballet not boorishness as a child because his arms form the corresponding v-formation to match his legs. This has the added advantage of making it impossible for fellow passengers to occupy even half of the adjacent seat. Barry doesn't mind. He plays on his little PSP while listening to his little music player. Barry isn't little though.

Welcome to London-in-Clement

Due to today's inclement weather, please take extra care when alighting from the carriages and utilising the platform and concourse areas. For those requiring the modern English language versions of these instructions please progress to the cinematic installation adjacent to the former underground railway entrance.

At the car wash

Phil and Don are fat. They are so fat that when they stand together in the aisle of a railway carriage they form their own version of the rollers in a car wash. If you want to pass through them, you have to endure their own personal dampness. Phil and Don could have jointly formed that extra wheel on the wagon to help it keep rolling on; but nobody asked them. No, nobody asks them to move.

Will's sure

Nick and Will are chums from school. They are in their early twenties and now they can travel to work together. They confirm this loudly in case anyone else in the carriage is in any doubt. Nick's teeth protrude dramatically in order to make his points. The middle-aged lady opposite him is shrouded in a new kind of natural mist which settles like mould on her dark overcoat. Will has ears like satellite dishes but still needs Nick to repeat himself every time, loudly. Nick and Will are determined to talk in an old boy style: 'We need to get our ducks in a row...' 'I'm minded to send a memo...' Will now needs to repeat himself in order to confirm that he's both heard Nick and can also speak: 'Yep, Yep, Yep...' 'Sure Sure Sure...' Sure is a deodorant but doesn't alleviate all nasty smells.

Environmentally friendly

Jeremy has a gleaming bicycle which folds, but insufficiently for it not to catch every seated passagenger as he walks down the aisle and lovingly and noisily stores it on the luggage rack, meant for suitcases; Jeremy has a nice green fluorescent jacket which shines in the carriage lights and hurts your eyes; Jeremy has a jolly posh red hat, which keeps falling off the passenger tray, meant for coffees, and waking everybody up; Jeremy's been cycling really fast to get to the station in time and now his pores are relaxing, sharing a moist, sweaty aroma with everyone else - to encourage them to do the same; Jeremy cares about his environment.

Pauline

Pauline shouts at a nearly empty railway carriage. It shivers, waiting for the comfortable heat of bodies.

'Is anyone sitting there?' she demands of the vacant seat. Either deaf or dumbstruck, it doesn't reply. Pauline launches herself at it and claims an easy victory, while her headphones flash intermittently blue. Pauline is hard to beat.

The headphones are on but there's nobody there

Like a record stylus keeping the music almost to itself when its owner forgot to turn the amplifier on, Angela's headphones perform the same task in September 2008. Wide-eyed and unblinking she sits perfectly still in a deafening perspex box while the songs in her head go round and round. She notices, suddenly, that there are others in the room. It resembles a train carriage. Their body language and facial expressions suggest that they too can hear the music, yet they aren't listening; not like she is. There must have been a leak. Her secrets are out.

Welcome aboard

Welcome aboard this East Midlands Trains service to London St Pancras. You must have a valid ticket to travel on this service. If not, you'll have to pay a fine. Advance Payment tickets may not be valid and you could be looking at a charge of £63.50. Standard Open tickets are acceptable but our ticket specialists will be scrutinising them closely during your journey. Invalid ticket holders will be asked to leave at the next available station and could incur criminal records. Anyone travelling with guilty secrets should confess all to their fellow passengers now, before we depart, so as to avoid inner stress and possible victimisation in the latter stages when our psychologists, hidden among you, will reveal their findings and possibly cause delays to this service. Now, just sit back, relax and enjoy your journey.

East Midlands Trains draw blanks

Travelling from Nottingham to Leicester. Hadn't booked a seat. Spotted many seats without tickets. Couldn't believe so few had been reserved. Spotted newcomers looking out of windows but not quite managing to do so. They were looking just above the windows and just below the luggage racks. Thought this was some kind of group exercise in peripheral vision. Spotted that there were blue LCD displays above each seat (as they had, being way ahead of me). Some displays spelled out the words 'Reserved'; others, 'Not Reserved' but some were blank. What did blank mean: a blank in the brain of human or computer managing the system? Or a passenger who had failed to decide whether to sit in that seat, even at this late hour, in case of unpleasant neighbours? Or was it just a mistake at the planning stage when people were observed as being reserved, not reserved at all or just plain forgettable?

You'll never get there

Return journey from Ely to Nottingham - Thursday September 11th - 07.44 cancelled due to train difficulties in Cambridge - 08.51 advised - train drew to halt at Whittlesea - trespasser had tried to 'charge the train' - train came out of service at Peterborough due to driver difficulties - carriages to form train to Leeds couldn't be found so it was cancelled - took train to Leicester - came to abrupt halt at Oakham as passenger stung by a wasp and gone into anaphylactic shock - tea lady and ticket collector looked after passenger while station staff hid, knowing there was no health and safety policy that they could think of - mood of passengers quickly changed from 'poor girl' to 'why are hundreds of us being held up by one person?' - ambulance came, train left, came to halt near Melton Mowbray due to person activating alarm in disabled toilet - missed Leicester connection - arrived in Nottingham at 12.35 instead of 9.40 - train delays on return journey due to freight train blocking trains from Birmingham - trespasser on line held up trains heading north - arrived home a further hour late. Meeting was good.

Mugabe

Mugabe strode aboard the train at Cambridge station this morning. He quickly surveyed the seated, waiting crowd before marching to the seat next to me. He produced a pocketful of tickets which he tore into smaller and smaller pieces, as if their rights to travel had never existed. He then opened The Times, breathing ever more heavily as he did so. The faces on the front page winced as his calloused fingers traced their outlines and visibly relaxed again as their page was turned: history.

Gerta

"And he said, you know, what size? Well, I didn't think that was, um, how do you say...so I said, I really don't think you should be asking me these kinds of questions, and he started to get angry. I could see him sweating and, um, very hot. He asked if I was staying there and I said, no, I was on the way to the, you know, train and he told me to go away. 'Take away' he said which I don't really understand because I don't say that when I want someone to leave and it wasn't in, um, any of the books. He then tried to guess my name and called them out. I don't know why he did this because, you know, I didn't ask him his name. 'Latte' was one of the ones he chose and I said no, it isn't. There was a long snake, how you say, queue now and people were looking at me, expecing, um, a reply so I said. No, you're wrong, my name is Gerta...Gerta Offamatitz..."

Put it next to the shed, Josh

"Hello. Yes. Oh, hello Josh. Yes. Yes I know it did. No...No, Josh, listen: don't worry about it for now. OK. Yes I am. About 6. OK. See you then"

"Hello. Hi. Yes but...Yes, but as I said earlier...No just put it by the shed. Yes. Yes. OK. Bye"

"Hello. Hi Josh. No don't put it by the trampoline. Those friends of Mindy's will leap off on to it and damage it. Put it next to the shed, Josh. OK. Bye"

"Hello, no...No! If you put it there the cats will think it's a rabbit and try and eat it... The shed is definitely the best place."

"Hello. No it's alright. No, because that's where Simon tends to have his accidents... Yes. Next to the shed. Bye"

"Hello. Yes Josh. What do you mean where has the shed gone?"

We're sorry to announce

We're sorry to announce that the 06.41 service to Ipswich has been cancelled. This is due to a complete lack of interest. The driver would rather travel to the Midlands today to meet his sister in Leicester, and our customers have indicated that they would rather travel to any destination other than Ipswich. Understandably.

Making faces at you

He sits on the edge, staring down the crowded aisle. He is looking for a face, or faces. He looks down at his pencil and pad but only momentarily. He returns to unreturned gazing. His head pops up and down like a swimmer doing the breaststroke. He gasps for the air, the lifeblood, that only people's faces can sustain. He sketches them all. He'll colour in his memories later. He is an artist and we are subjected.

Graham's comb

Graham is six feet five tall and has long, straggly dark hair. He also has an enormous beer gut which he carries like a trophy. When Graham sits down on the train, newspapers have to be shifted inwards or sideways. Graham doesn't read. Graham needs the toilet as soon as he boards the train. Unknowing passengers breathe sighs of relief. But Graham soon returns, like a bad Review. Graham likes films from the 'fifties. He combs his hair with a dull, silver comb. It doesn't work. It never works. Graham combs his hair again. His neighbour now resembles a cat lover. Graham doesn't notice, which is why he never kept a pet. Graham's hair should be on a lead; but Graham is a follower with no disciples.

Presence not just for Christmas

Extraordinary shapes they do form, swallowing up any space made for others. They often come in shiny packaging, sometimes with fiddly bows, sometimes playing very loud music without. Occasionally smelling of soap but sometimes aromas unknown or unwanted. They rattle and roll if you push them sideways, or make strange wheezing noises in the darkness. If you prod them in a stray moment of irresponsibility, be on the alert for unexpected reactions. In short, be careful what you wish for, because commuters aren't just for Christmas - they're for life.

Railway Rhymes

I came across this post by Sarah Crown to her Guardian blog. I too feel inspired by railway journeys to write and observe, suspended as I am between one reality and another.

Copper thefts

I have a Google Alert for other 'Railway Lines' mentions and one that has come up twice in the last week has been for "copper thefts." I know this is about the shortage of minerals in various part sof the world but prefer to think about policemen being disappeared from the beat!

Little carriages at six forty five

Since moving to Burwell, I now have a short drive to Cambridge station. I have to park, buy my train and parking tickets and then queue up on Platform One for the 6.45am to London.

Cambridge commuters tend to fit into three distinct groups: besuited men who look down their ties at the world and wish they'd been part of their city's academic fabric; wholemeal bread-eating, bearded cyclists (some of the women have moustaches) who look at the besuited men as though they've somehow failed society, and students of all nationalities who have the world's music on their iPods and just need to sleep in any positions they can find.

Meredith's habit

Meredith has adopted the funeral parlour look. He polishes his cheeks every morning to ensure water retention is a downstairs rather than an upstairs problem. His suit lies in a state off of his bony shoulders but Meredith is in charge and considers his body to be representative of stature not statue. He unravelled endless wires from his iPod this morning. I laughed, knowingly and supportively. He didn't. Presumably I am dead to his world?

Donald ducked

Donald took his usual seat by the window. Politely but firmly he knocked newspapers and empty coffee cups off the window ledge. He installed himself and his Daily Mail, like an annoying icon on the Windows screen that keeps re-appearing, despite all attempts to delete it. Donald stands just five feet tall. When he sits, he feels more in control. His dumpy legs are hidden and so is their length - or lack of it. Donald's fringe line is suspiciously uniform but he strokes his hair as if he owns it.

Even Donald grows tired of his paper by the time we reach Stevenage. Like the Empire, it falls little by little until only snoring can be heard. A stone flies up off the track, waking Donald who, after years of teasing, ducks down in his seat. But neither sticks nor stones will ever defeat him; it's the words he tries to hide from.

We really are sorry

for the delay to your journey this morning: forty five minutes in Royston is enough for anybody - we know. All that waiting around, not knowing quite what to do and nobody to help you. Hopefully you weren't one of the poor people (well you would be after buying one of our Gold Cards) who climbed up all those steps to cross on to the far platform, then back again, and then over once more. It really makes you want to cross to the other side doesn't it?

To show you how much we care, we thought you'd like to return to Cambridge and travel to London via Liverpool Street instead. Not sure why there were only four carriages instead of eight: beggars belief really, doesn't it, on a day like today - and Monday morning too? Still, hopefully you'll have made lots of new friends and are probably on quite intimate terms by now? Either way, we can't claim any credit: that's for you to take up with One Railway, not us.

We remain sorry. If you did pick up a leaflet on one of the many stations you'll have visited this morning you'll see that we've embarked on a brand new strategy (or is that new brand strategy? Do people notice if they're going forwards or backwards?). We at First Capital Collect have decided to focus on asset management from now on; not that you you have any interest in it of course.

No wallflowers here

A short, weather-beaten woman of about forty is using her moblie 'phone. Dressed in black jumper and skirt with regulation pink ribbon attached to her lapel and black shiny boots marking her four-seater territory. She speaks amazingly quickly to the two young girls, clad only in light, summer dresses and torn plimsolls of about ten and twelve but then slowly, very slowly into the handset. Perhaps she's on speed and taking brakes as an antidote at the same time?

Mother: "Yes. Yes. Gary, Sian, Jimmy and Greg will be on the top table. No. Shirley, Jenny, Rose and Julie will not be on the top table. Yes. Jeremy will be on the top table. No. Susan won't be there."

Youngest girl: "Mummy, why won't Susan be there?"

Mother: "She's cracked."

Older sister: "When did that happen?"

Mother: "Uncle Kevin dropped her and she's not safe to be let out right now - especially at a wedding."

Youngest girl: "What about the flowers she was going to hold?"

Mother: "Don't worry, there are plenty more vases in the cupboard."

Not quite, Rebecca

Beccy entered the carriage at Royston. She had last year's pink and white buttoned-up jacket and an orange face that added ten years to the twenty five or so that her passport gave away: that passport with the photo that made her look like a schoolgirl. Beccy took wads of important-looking papers from her smart black leather bag. Then put them back again in a slightly different (ordered) format. She accessed her laptop, making sure to elbow the passenger next door with every keyboard sequence. She stared intelligently at the screen before logging off again, her analysis both penetrating and cleverly seamless to the outside world. Beccy didn't quite make it to Cambridge and is still a long way from Rebecca.

A bridge too far

I passed the 'Walking Man' this morning. He is my time gauge. If he is near to the station, I am late and have to speed up. If he isn't there at all, it's probably Saturday and I have to pretend I got up early just to make sure the route hadn't changed since I first followed it thirteen years ago.

Today he was only crossing the bridge over the river when I passed him in the car. I wasn't early so he was late. He's never late. He can't afford to be - too many of us rely on him not to be.

He did manage to turn up on time, wandering casually on to the platform, but the train hadn't arrived. Nobody could find out why: it was just running late. How could the Walking Man have known that it would be?

Moira listing

Moira was listing from side to side this morning. That was just on the ramp up to the platform at Ely. Her matching cloth and plastic bags resisted the undercarriage's intention to board the train - like a young child wanting to stand and watch but not take part. Moira landed with a flurry, frightening a half-asleep middle-aged lady, who already had a walking stick, and a wired-up student opposite. The student kept dropping his laptop mouse and Moira joined in with a game of stop, control and pass the ballpoint pen. Soon everyone was joining in. Moira then did her party piece and threw a half-empty cup of coffee over said student, laptop and walking stick. Pandemonium, tissues, 'it's OK' smiles and 'it's not OK' glares. Mental notes not to accept Moira's party invitations in future: talk of 'bad cough and cold' could be heard as whispers drowned out the driver's intercom. Moira was the first out of her seat at King's Cross, as though she had an urgent meeting. Crashing past eager news reporters and cameramen who filled her distorted vision, she ran down the platform with baggage sort of in tow. I saw her later in the tube station, not moving, just standing and looking all around her. Bewildered, she waited for an unseen signal to change in her head, then moved forward, slowly at first, before listing from side to side once more. Normal service had resumed.

What should I do?

"What should I do? My mate split up with me just before we were due to meet on Friday. I'd just picked up my dry cleaning to make it worse. Sent me a bleedin' text message. Couldn't understand what most of it said apart from c ya at the end. Anyways, her mate had split up with her bloke last weekend so I sees her in the pub. We end up havin' a few drinks and then I walks her home. We end up sleepin' in the same bed, right. Nothin' happened but we spent the night together. You know. Woke up in the same bed? Seems my mate found out about it and got the right hump. More than I ever got when we was together!"

"It's like this see. Relationships are just like fishing. You put a lot of effort in during the morning then you have a snooze and watch the fish literally diving on to your hooks. You like the look of what you see and feel hungry for more. Then you notice how cold and slimy they are. Them eyes don't stop staring at you. So what you do is chuck 'em back in the river. You'd think it would teach them a lesson but they never seem to learn."

'Balls!', I said

"...and they promised they’d be finished by One; well, when they didn’t arrive I just went ahead with the Yorkshires. 'No balls!' they said. 'Balls!' I said. They eventually turned up in the second shed – well it’s older than the Scandinavian Pine one you see- wretched flatpack furniture - and Clive managed to screw properly inside her; so they were able to have a game after all but after they’d come in, all hot and sweaty and well, lacking bounce, they had to shower – must have been freezing when they came out; at least the puddings stood to attention, ha hah ha; mind you Great Aunt Minnie used to swear by cold showers – never actually got her in one of course..."

Dull Dave

Dull Dave sits on the edge of his seat. He'd like everyone to think he lives life on the edge, but he doesn't. He barely moves his legs when asked if the seat next to him is free. He is goading the new arrival to accidentally step on his foot. Dull Dave chews menacingly below balding pate and unexceptional glasses. He glares with disdain at all around him, rejecting their concerns and resenting their laughter. Dull Dave leaves the train at Cambridge and picks up his red Fiesta that was never polished or new. He arrives at his semi-detached on the outskirts of an area that will never become sought after. Dull Dave's wife is out at yet another evening class and his children are at friends' houses. Dull Dave is in control of his life.

Car park etiquette

No etiquette exists in the station car park. Morning Gents screams down the ramp in his day tripper-proof giant Audi. The Slow Man unbends stiffly from his shiny black sports coupe. He waits for other cars to arrive before nonchalently hitting the central locking key. No point in others not seeing which car he drives, even though his own eyesight isn't what it was and he never exceeds 50 mph. Diet: The Paradox wobbles out of her red Metro like a raspberry jelly with a greying skin. The Walking Man causes a crisis by buying a permit to travel from the machine which was designed to stress over coins and notes. Doesn't he possess a different credit card from the one it swallowed last week? What is the matter with people? The cars wink slyly at each other. They know.

Screw you

"Screw? You? What happened to no nails? No. No nails. Not toenails you dipstick: no nails. No, I'm not saying I haven't got any...yeah, I know, in the blue box under the wrench in the back of the van. Yeah. Yeah. No I haven't forgotten that I asked you to put it there. No. No, my memory's fine and...no...no!! If you want a screw you'll have to ask Darren. Hello...Hello! Oh, there you are; thought you'd gone off for a ...no...no, of course I wasn't insinu... I know that. Barry there's nothing wrong with liking The Feeling. No,no not at all... Screwing? Oh I see. Ha Ha. Look, I got a message that you needed screws for those shelves and...not on the shelf, no. For the brackets, yes. Yes. No, not hinge and bracket. No. No I wasn't imply... Doh! Tunnels. Just when we were getting somewhere."

Rustle that bag

Bespectacled girl, greasy hair, tablecloth skirt, fifteen bags of overflowing garments desperate to escape her clutches. Plastic carrier bag at centre of it all - clearly the creative playmaker in the whole setup. Nothing can be moved to luggage rack above or section between seats below without it making the crucial pass or tackle. It is extremely vocal and soon everyone knows the familiar refrain of the aggressive plastic carrier bag, urging its team members on as it makes its plays from all angles; lifts, hoists and spills over across the carriage playing field. One plastic carrier bag whose rustle transcends any earphone fallout or dedicated throat clearing. One bag, one transmitter, many audiences.

Ricky don't lose that number

"Ricky? RICKY? Yeah, ma. On the soddin' train wot d'you think? I'll be..."

"Ricky? Ricky? RICKY? Yeah. No lost the signal. Look. Wait up and listen will ya? There's a number on..."

"Ricky? Yeah. Yeah. Tunnels in'it. Ow shud I know? I'm not sidekick man. The fridge. There's a piece of paper on the fridge with a number ritten on it. Wot is it? No. No. Stop messin' man I know what a fridge is. The number. Quick before we go dark again. No. No I know it's dark already I meant the tunnel. The number. No, I meant the number is wot I need. Yeah. Rite. Cos I'm gonna be late for my English class init? I need to fone them. Don't you lose that number cos I mite need it again. Yeah. Later. Ricky? RICKY? Don't..."

The braying donkey

Our railway company uses 'customers' as a public-facing metaphor for its own working label: cattle. We are frequently herded on to carriages and packed in to standing areas without food or water. They cancelled the trolley service as they didn't make enough money from it. If any cattle died on route it was only a case of the cleaner/farm worker to dispose of it via gloves and pitchforks before they smelled too bad or created an incident by refusing to move for other cattle.

To my surprise, this morning we were treated to a braying donkey who proceeded to roar with laughter at his own jokes about wiring circuits and diodes while snorting profusely, foaming at either end of his Channel Tunnel-sized mouth and rocking himself backwards and forwards in his seat. Had he met the railway company's unofficial description as a species of cattle we could dealt with him via foot and mouth; but then we'd have been behaving like animals.

Cashmere or Kashmir?

Tall man, fifties, in light brown cashmere coat and chin that juts out like a Cornish promontory barges past the queue of people waiting to board train. Platform is packed but he sees this as a challenge for his shiny black briefcase which not only stores paracetamol and Penthouse but can be used as a guided weapon. Small Indian lady is knocked off balance by his determination to get a seat; her bag falls to the ground revealing five-a-day fruit contents that roll as well as rock. Appalled fellow victims help her to re-group, missing their own slots at the opening doors. He pushes aside the debris of living things and, eyes blazing in triumph, annexes four seats for himself and his ego aura. Indian lady walks to the far end of the train and climbs in gingerly before entering the First-Class compartment. Train pulls out of the station and she waves nicely at the victor, surrounded as he is by Happy Meals being consumed noisily by happy children who just got the train in the nick of time.

Whiter than white

Perfectly coiffured and in spotless white England rugby shirts they talked of dinner parties and Sunday afternoon walks. They smelled of Christmas gifts and wrapped everything up in the way they talked. No time for tactics here, my friend; we are extending our own brands...oh, we didn't realise the game had come to an end.

Et cetera

"...so I went for the matching cushions et cetera. I threw the red ones out because they didn't match the new beige curtains et cetera and they had bloodstains on (not that you'd know because of the colour). I decided that the carpet had to change too because the coloured flecks et cetera didn't match the decor of the rest of the room and there was that flattened area where we all got the carpet burns et cetera. The cats aren't allowed to sleep in the room now in case they leave hairs et cetera. All in all I'm really pleased how it's all worked out. Now, in the kitchen..."

This is your driver

"This is your driver speaking. Hope you can all hear this important message. If you can't then you won't realise how important it is. When this train gets to Cambridge it will divide. Being an eight carriage train that means it will divide into four carriages either side of the coupling - that's the bit that connects them together. If you've ever watched Hitchcock films you'll know the bit I mean. No need to jump from carriage to carriage but it would be in your best interests to make sure you're in the front four carriages if you intend to travel beyond Cambridge towards King's Lynn (by train that is). If you're currently sitting in the stripy carriages then you're in the wrong section. You need to be in the bluey purple section. I realise it may be difficult to look at the outside of the train while we're travelling but I suggest you do so if and when we stop. Don't blame me if you find yourself heading back to London by mistake. You have been warned; at least those of you who can hear this important message have. Thank you."

St Paul's big mistake

Central Line on the London Underground this morning. Couple get on train at Bank. Large and hulking, big-boned man and woman with drab coats and drab faces. Make big deal out of the gap between train and platform. Nothing compared to gap behind satellite dish-sized ears. Complain of cold wind and rain. Smell of cold soup and pain.

Alight at St Paul's. He makes grand gesture of holding out hand - even though gap has disappeared - but she ignores it and leaps out as you would in the triple jump, narrowly avoiding station wall. Wall is not amused but doesn't say anything, remains bland. As does the man. She does not. Deliberately surveying the platform from left to right as if to confirm that the world is round before moving in any direction she exclaims out loud

"Looks like we're going to have to go outside again - back into the rain; I don't see an entrance especially for the church."

He makes a mistake, though eloquent all the same: "They don't own all the land any more. Bishops have to make the same entrances as everyone else. If the Heavens open they can take neither credit nor blame. Besides, it's a cathedral."

She turns on him and, with every fibre of her suppressed being, screams:

"I know it's a cathedral. I am not stupid. What I don't understand is why they didn't put a direct entrance to it from the tube when they built it."

Give me space

Very large man sprawled across two and a half seats on the train this morning, holding forth about the price increases on the rail network, while displaying his obvious propensity for enlargement. He holds a much smaller man captive until Cambridge when carriage fills with new 'customers' and the small man is able to position his white earphones. Refusing to move aside to just a single seat until Letchworth the large man fends people off by saying he needs more space but refusing to answer questions on how many seats he has actually paid for.

Fen Creative: Writing for People, Pleasure and Profit at http://www.fencreative.co.uk

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Physical contact

Quite large woman, enhanced by woolly fleece no self-respecting sheep would have been seen dead in, sits heavily next to me. After examining her many individual bags of shopping together, it dawns her that privacy of space isn't normally available an option on public transport. She thus sits diagonally on the seat with muscular legs parked at various angles in the aisle. This has the effect of both increasing physical contact with my left shoulder every time her grudging heart continues to beat. Presumably the repositioning strategy was aimed at achieving the opposite? Various passengers trip over her legs and aren't impressed when they look at the objects of their demise. Presumably that isn't on strategy either?

Not Ken Bates

He got on at Ely and hurled his coat into the luggage rack several times until it realised who he was and stopped throwing it back. Tall, with slightly unkempt grey hair he then sat back heavily to hold court over the three disciples, sitting in his section of four. The two men in the 'cheap seats' had to face him, for their's was punishment indeed; the lady beside him had to endure shoulder barges as he illustrated his many verbal assaults.

But this was not Ken Bates, Chairman of Leeds United, this was a lookalike and soundalike without any real substance at all. His low-level drivel about all of the exciting things he had been party to, and usually host of, was provided to all. Completely free of charge, all the way to King's Cross. A pay to hit strategy would have been successful here, even for casual browsers, who didn't have to search very far to find the reason that they hadn't been able to sleep.

Cold Contract

Our train no longer stops at Ashwell or Baldock. Not sure whether the passengers waiting on the platforms there realise they are no longer customers. This change was only made yesterday, probably because it got cold. Stopping at intemediate stations is sometimes accompanied by doors opening. All that cold air - a welcome contrast to First Capital Direct's corporate PR - is not bracing, it just wakes everyone up, including the driver. If temperatures drop, isn't there a law of physics that states that everything contracts? If so, why hasn't the distance between us and London got smaller? Not only that, if we don't stop at Ashwell or Baldock any more, why do we not get to King's Cross any earlier?

Little girl in a purple coat

The hordes departed at Ely station this evening and were immediately swallowed up by the dark night, as if they'd never been there at all, like a rapidly fading memory.

One little girl who could only have been two years old, waiting on the platform with Daddy for someone special to arrive. Dressed in a little purple coat and red trousers, she searched anxiously all around her but making sure to hold tightly on to Daddy's hand. What a nice scene to play towards the end of today's Act?

Daddy then lit a cigarette and, bending down to hear what she was shouting, above the noise of all the others, blew smoke into her pretty fair hair. The little girl coughed a little then kept on looking out for that someone special, still hopeful and still holding on to the only security she knew of.

Railway Lines aren't always straight

This is the first post of a blog designed to bring you characters and stories from my regular commuter journeys from the Cambridgeshire Fens to London.

I have been making this journey along the iron road for some thirteen years and covered both thousands of miles and thousands of conversation snippets, smiles, grimaces and body language that has said so much more than the capacity for words those people possessed.

I can't help being an observer; I don't imagine you could even dream of being a writer if you weren't blessed with curiosity and imagination in equal measures, much less become one.

So our journey begins here and the train is already late.