Cold
Four long months have passed since the last train report. What might have occurred in the interceding months is now lost amongst the hazy mists of time. This morning’s ride was not unlike any that might have occurred during this quiet patch. Standing somewhat cramped between two women, ears full of sounds intent to distract, there was little to note in the faces and disposition of my fellow travellers.
Amongst these temporary companions, you’ll find but a few who ever bother to look up from their phones the entire time. Others sit buried in books, while the remainder are usually still, eyes closed, in quiet reflection that can, I imagine, only be about the horrors awaiting at work. We all wear our little, invisible Resignation Bonnets.
If I was pressed to point out any highlights in the last four months, it might take some time to collate those precious moments. None are forthcoming and require coaxing from a special repository of shit we’d all rather forget. Odour seems a familiar complaint. Towards the start of the week I stood beside a man of questionable personal hygiene; an all-too-common occurrence. Flatulence is regular encounter, although by no means near as frequent as the oral issues that seem to have befallen the British public overall. What binds these wonders of the human body together so neatly is the full blown reluctance to open any windows. Fresh air, of course, harbours cold irrespective of season, it seems. Cold, in any form, is merciless and cruel in its leveling of the spirit. It drives almost each and every decision made by the British, and the stifling heat and fetid air contained within a train carriage is of welcome relief from the climactic perils beyond.
