No grass

I don’t think I’ve been at a more disorganised and unpleasant train station than Birmingham New Street. The most I can say in its favour is that there is a shopping precinct across the road to while away the time when you discover your train has been cancelled.

When my train came, I boarded, pleased to have shelved my case securely and scored a table. Then over the tannoy came: ‘Passengers are advised that only the last two carriages will be departing.’
By the time I reached the last two carriages, they were as packed as an olive jar. Faces green from the squash and heat.
I got off, disgruntled that I had been waiting over an hour for a train I couldn’t fit on. Then, the porters quipped: ‘Don’t worry, we’ll get you in.’
It took a few attempts at closing the door, but he was right.
Hillsborough, I thought.

Two girls were pressed against the door, like me. They were asking questions like: ‘Why sell more tickets than you have seats?’
I explained open tickets.
The Tannoy announced: ‘We apologise for the delay. We have lost the driver.’

By this point, I had twigged the date: Friday 13th.

People were beginning to sneeze and cough, and I was composing a risqué letter in my head to take my mind off how uncomfortable I'd become.

What if the doors open whilst we’re moving, in some kind of system malfunction, I asked myself.
‘I hope the doors don’t open whilst we’re moving,’ said brunette girl.

I quite like coincidences, like when you inadvertently overlap a word in conversation with someone speaking on the radio.

My leg is itching, I realised.
‘My leg itches,’ said the ebony-haired girl.

And then the tannoy, for the third time, said: ‘We apologise. We’ve sent out many announcements but we do appear to have misplaced the driver.’

I decided to get off again and wait for the next train.

It was too cold to sit and read, so I made a mind-sketch of a drawing I hoped to do, en route. Since I had several hours ahead of me, I reasoned some incredible work of art was feasible (though I was to discover when I attempted it, I couldn’t draw a button.)

Then I met this woman:
She told me she had travelled from Cornwall that morning, and that it had been like summer on the beach, but that she didn’t like it. She had a little white dog and a big hat. ‘She’s had two wees, but won’t have another as there’s no grass,’ she explained, stroking the fur ball.

When she left the train, she peered at me, and said: ‘Enjoy God’s county.’

It's nice to be home.

(Illustration by Wayne Anderson, from book, Ratsmagic.)