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. If I
make no movement, he will be a contractor from Scotland who has no effect on me
what so ever and I will never see him again.
Sorry, that’s paranoia. It’s the claustrophobia acting up. Seriously, its like being at
a million tickets sold out rock concert in a portable loo. Bending down is
impossible. I don’t dare get my mobile out incase I drop it and never see it again.
The leather shoes on the floor seem to have been compressed into thick, black
soup, with only shiny steel buckles indicating that your feet have not just floated
away. The heat is intolerable. Each neck colour was a volcano of sweat, the neat
from their bodies matching the eruption.
Suddenly the eternal rattling is outdone by the screeching as the graphite baked
bean tin with wheels throws us all forward. The screen above our heads flickers
then starts again with the aggravating, female commenty of the event quickly
following. A final shudder and we’ve landed. The ‘times’ paper closes, BO man’s
arms relax, I spit out pieces of jacket, and we all stagger to our feet, not least to
man at the front of the train who was crushed under the human mass as the train
braked. 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.
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. If I
make no movement, he will be a contractor from Scotland who has no effect on me
what so ever and I will never see him again.
Sorry, that’s paranoia. It’s the claustrophobia acting up. Seriously, its like being at
a million tickets sold out rock concert in a portable loo. Bending down is
impossible. I don’t dare get my mobile out incase I drop it and never see it again.
The leather shoes on the floor seem to have been compressed into thick, black
soup, with only shiny steel buckles indicating that your feet have not just floated
away. The heat is intolerable. Each neck colour was a volcano of sweat, the neat
from their bodies matching the eruption.
Suddenly the eternal rattling is outdone by the screeching as the graphite baked
bean tin with wheels throws us all forward. The screen above our heads flickers
then starts again with the aggravating, female commenty of the event quickly
following. A final shudder and we’ve landed. The ‘times’ paper closes, BO man’s
arms relax, I spit out pieces of jacket, and we all stagger to our feet, not least to
man at the front of the train who was crushed under the human mass as the train
braked. 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.
