Setting off - Brighton is cold with a whitish grey sky. The taxi driver is quiet and I am glad. It is the perfect day for travelling.
Coffee and papers - obligatory for a journey, I complete my first crossword in ages. Sudoku is next whilst the bare skeletons of barren trees rush by and all that can be seen is an embankment occasionally strewn with rubbish and an illegible meaningless graffiti tag. Tunnels make my ears tickle as Fleetwood Mac go their own way.
The man opposite me turns down the offer of the sports page as he read it earlier, and now his head is nodding. The man opposite on the left is reading a book - he is using his fingers to follow his place. I know he's doing this as I can see him reflected in the partition door behind whilst Johnny Cash sings Rose of my Heart.
Approaching London; a huge ugly tower block reaches into the white sky, dotted like acne with satellite dishes. I can see the Gherkin like a giant torpedo on the horizon and I know I'm almost halfway. A yellow balloon is tied to some railings and is struggling to free itself from the grey, metal, depressive carbuncle it's attached to.
We cross the river - cranes are juxtaposed with St. Paul's. in the hazy distance London Bridge isn't falling down but the citizens of the capital walk by expressionless like a T.S Elliot poem. A couple of 40-something media-types get on; he's on his phone, she's wearing bad shoes and speaking fast. Her conversation is boring and she chews gum whilst she talks at him. He looks disinterested - I turn up my MP3 player so Jimi Hendrix can shout her down.
The stations are whizzing past; London is behind us and green starts to reappear. There's a man on his mobile in a field by a river. His 2 Doberman dogs are sniffing this way and that - the man is somewhere else and doesn't look at them or us.
The sky turns blue; newly ploughed fields are lit by the sun and we thunder by churches and farms only a stones throw away - we are loud and unwanted as we blast through their once idyllic setting. The media couple get off and Vivaldi escorts me to Bedfordshire where my father will be waiting to meet me in the place that I come to visit but no longer want to live - The place I used to call home.
Coffee and papers - obligatory for a journey, I complete my first crossword in ages. Sudoku is next whilst the bare skeletons of barren trees rush by and all that can be seen is an embankment occasionally strewn with rubbish and an illegible meaningless graffiti tag. Tunnels make my ears tickle as Fleetwood Mac go their own way.
The man opposite me turns down the offer of the sports page as he read it earlier, and now his head is nodding. The man opposite on the left is reading a book - he is using his fingers to follow his place. I know he's doing this as I can see him reflected in the partition door behind whilst Johnny Cash sings Rose of my Heart.
Approaching London; a huge ugly tower block reaches into the white sky, dotted like acne with satellite dishes. I can see the Gherkin like a giant torpedo on the horizon and I know I'm almost halfway. A yellow balloon is tied to some railings and is struggling to free itself from the grey, metal, depressive carbuncle it's attached to.
We cross the river - cranes are juxtaposed with St. Paul's. in the hazy distance London Bridge isn't falling down but the citizens of the capital walk by expressionless like a T.S Elliot poem. A couple of 40-something media-types get on; he's on his phone, she's wearing bad shoes and speaking fast. Her conversation is boring and she chews gum whilst she talks at him. He looks disinterested - I turn up my MP3 player so Jimi Hendrix can shout her down.
The stations are whizzing past; London is behind us and green starts to reappear. There's a man on his mobile in a field by a river. His 2 Doberman dogs are sniffing this way and that - the man is somewhere else and doesn't look at them or us.
The sky turns blue; newly ploughed fields are lit by the sun and we thunder by churches and farms only a stones throw away - we are loud and unwanted as we blast through their once idyllic setting. The media couple get off and Vivaldi escorts me to Bedfordshire where my father will be waiting to meet me in the place that I come to visit but no longer want to live - The place I used to call home.
I like the visions you gave me in this piece. When I was in England I was pretty much stuck in London (what a bloody expensive city)! but would love to see the countryside someday, and perhaps another city like Liverpool or Birmingham (although the towns that are off the beaten path always appeal to me most).
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