Trains and Tailors

A whistle shrieks from afar as the train approaches. Steam drifts over every open space on the platform, skirting round the people who stand waiting for the hoards of passengers to get off the train. A chill lingers at the bottom of my spine when the fog on the train window in front of me starts to fade, my own reflection staring back at me. It is slightly hazy from the condensation, but the paleness of my face is obvious – more so than usual. There's a thin smile, but to the persistent observer or a close friend, they would see past the shallow exterior. The glasses perched upon my nose are glazed from the combined assault of frosted air and the warmth of my breath. My posture is poor, my hair unkempt.

I shall have to compensate my pitiful, unruly appearance with charm and sophistication; not all men can balance a night of heavy drinking and then look sharp and immaculate for work the next day.

The gin was completely Robert's idea, of course.

Before long, the bell rings for the train doors to be opened, and strangers come rushing out, to be engulfed in the welcoming embraces of their families, or to mould into passionate kisses with the wives. They shall all return home to indulge in a family feast, having only the finest food London has to offer. They would share stories of their travels, wondrous adventures and exciting tales from beyond here, beyond London. The train whistle sounds again, drowning out the loud chatter of the people who are newly returned from their holidays. The train picks up speed again as it moves away from the platform, continuing down the track for its next drop-off.

Sighing loudly and trying to regain some body heat, I bob up and down on the balls of my feet; this past Winter has been particularly vicious with its weather. Perhaps it's been shaped to match my recent disposition; or rather, the weather is colder because of the raw melancholy that appears to have consumed me as of late. Perhaps the cold I feel is merely an illusion, and the real numbing chill is buried in the deepest parts of my very being.

A real smile does indeed come to my face then, followed by a close-mouthed scoff. I'm an utter nitwit.

Time seems to pass rather hastily while consumed in your thoughts, as my train finally pulls up to the platform, steam permeating the area once more. I will my limbs to function, pleading them to move towards the nearest train door, but they're as reluctant as I am to leave. I take a deep breath and soak up my surroundings one last time, knowing how very unlikely I return here again. I have lived in London my whole life, and my friends and family all reside here. Memories were created in this flourishing city – both good and bad, it has always been an incredibly important place.

"Will you be getting on the train, Sir?" I look to the door that is now open, a boy hanging from it dressed in poorly tailored uniform. I take his impatient tone as my invitation to pick up my suitcase and walk swiftly past him. I hear the muffled blow of the whistle as the train sets in motion. Walking through the carriages, I start looking for a free seat, preferably one without any families causing ruckus or obnoxious noise.

A negative factor to traveling to the Lake District so early in the new year: the trains are always full of families escaping the last blizzards of Winter and getting ready to spend the Spring surrounded by fields and rivers, as opposed to the accustomed but less scenic factories smothered in smog.

I come across a free carriage – thank Heavens – before making haste to acquire it. I slide the door closed and settle into the cushioned seat. With a cathartic sigh, I relax my tense shoulders, and let my head fall onto the wall of the carriage. I close my eyes and try to block out the sounds of metal wheels turning against the train tracks, as well as the loud shrieks of excitement from children who have no concept of the real world or how you're supposed to behave on public transportation.