Death On A Train
I love old trains. I especially love the 07:42 from Faversham to Cannon Street. It’s the next best thing to a being in real time machine, albeit one that has only one journey option: a trip through Kent’s Victorian slum towns, before delivering you back in the 21st century later (sometimes much later) the same day.
I admire the faceless privateers at the train company for not giving into the pressure of trying to get passengers anywhere by any given time. Yesterday we were overtaken by a cow. As it passed us I noticed it was limping.
Recently, one of my fellow commuters died in the seat opposite me. We’d just passed Gillingham when he let out a long, wheezy sigh and relaxed deeper into his seat. And that was that.
One month on and he’s still there, sat peacefully as if in a lighter sleep, with hand outstretched clutching his season ticket. He’s inconspicuous among the other commuters, apart from the smell. I suppose the conductor will realise he’s snuffed it only when the season ticket expires (let’s hope it’s not an annual ticket), and then he’ll be carried off and buried somewhere just outside a Victorian slum town.
Your travelling problems will increase if this man hasn't an annual but an
Oyster Card!
I have never travelled on the trains after seeing an horrific episode of
Casey Jones once when Casey was hauled from his Kansas-bound train by a
pair of Pterodactyls.
Just because I have roused myself, that is roused and not aroused, you
little pink shit. Does not mean I'm dead. Just dozed off for a bit, she did
not turn up, so have been waiting. The ticket is still good for a while and
taking a shower in the morning with you lot around is not an option. It
might not be a bad idea to leave a piece of bread and cheese once in a
while. in the mean time my smell will grow on you, I hope.