Descriptive writing: busy and empty train station
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Descriptive writing: busy and empty train station Here I am again. The same too small, compact cattle truck. The same horde of half awake, half dead creatures in ties and rough jacket arm in my face as its wearer reads a 'daily times' that needed a small rainforest to construct. The same squeak of shoes on the paving slabs, the same slurps of coffee and crunch of breakfast burgers it killed your stomach for you to walk past because the part of your brain that drags you through it all knows the queues are too long. The man in the middle of the train with both arms up on the railings hasn't showered again. Whether he forgets, or has sacrificed his social life for some elbowroom, is puzzling. The 'times' man turns another page that seems even wider than the previous. He's one of those stuck-up, senior employees' guys with his large watch, new laptop and self-motivated air. If I make any attempt to get his sleeve out of my mouth, he will turn out to be a billionaire's spoilt brat and I'll never work in London again.
When the doors open it like blowing a hole in a dam and the water bursts forth. Its every man for himself and last one at work gets a rotten resume, to resist is to be trampled. I watch stragglers as I pass them. A present co-worker who takes her time should she break water there and then. Stay at home. Beggars who lay on the ground just 'begging' to be kicked by laying on the floor in front of us. The secretaries who can afford to be late, who can't type but are employed for the same reason as an executive stress ball. Noise is everywhere. Everyone is everywhere. We just want to get out. A beast with hard, plastic wings eats and defecates my ticket and lets me through. The lights at the end of the tunnel. I'm free. I surprise I should be grateful to my boss for making me late home for that executive meeting. This could mean promotion. The tie, forward slash, noose I put around my own neck won't be loosened, just more expensive.
A women is sitting on a bench on the otherside of the track, reading. I can actually hear her turn the page. The clunk, clunk, clunk arrives soon enough. Forgive me leaping so far ahead but there is literally nothing else to say. I jump up to get the best seats before the crowd, and then banged myself on the head in exasperation and amusement, and then exasperation again as I see the woman looking at me with a 'what the hell' look just before the train drives between us. It's Friday night, so the expected clubers get off the train. How different they dress from before, not a tie among them. There seem to be a lot more women, or maybe they're just a lot more notice able as women dressed like that are. They chatter and joke as they walk past me, again so different. The variety of colours lifts their spirits from the dull grey of work. I climb aboard and choose, choose, a seat. The mixture of shiny and dirty metal decorated in designer graphite is my only view. The train won't leave for a while yet, what should I do? Sleep. Get some sleep. This is nice, I like this. Here I am again.
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