Aluredian 47
by Toby Johnson M
anchester Victoria. As always,
packed with tourists and
businessmen alike, all jostling
for position amongst their fellow
competitors for their square metre of
personal space. They push and shove, all
social niceties hidden deep beneath the
selfish, ironically human nature of a fat
cat homing in on their latest business
deal. At least they do not discriminate;
children are flattened as much as adults,
as the superior man wins in another test
of strength. He cares not for the volley of
insults the horrified mother throws at his
well-suited back, for if he did, people
would mistake it for weakness. Little
does he know it, but to everyone around
him, he is as old as the trains that
thunder through the station every four
minutes.
These trains, though unaware of it
themselves, are more polite than almost
all humans. They always ask permission
to come along a crowded line, and let you
know they are coming to avoid startling
you. In many ways, they are akin to the
homeless men and women that wander
around on the streets; always travelling,
never clean, but as polite an acquaintance
as you will ever meet. These courteous
fellows idle calmly at their platforms,
gazing ahead, daydreaming about their
journey, whilst the gruff, grumbling
businessman trundles down the carriages,
with an air of superiority as he settles
down to his tea in first class.
Whilst these stories unfold, a million more
weave their way over bridges and under
them, trying to find their own courteous
courier that waits patiently for them to
board, before carefully escorting them to
their destination. The atmosphere that
surrounds these countless tales of fat cats
and young guns is never constant. Awash
with sorrow one minute as the most
feared word in the known world flashes
up on to one of the many screens that
guide the motley crew to their faithful
carrier. "Delays of up to six minutes"
throws a ghastly pall over the faces of so
many self-obsessed personages that then
proclaim "All is lost!", before sheepishly
admitting that his afternoon tea with an
old school chum might survive an extra
six minutes, before deciding they must
start Armageddon.
Of course, there are exceptions. Whilst
the trains procrastinate at their platforms,
the fat cats deflect the blame for another
spilt ice cream, and the lads fall over
each other laughing at the amusing stain
the fat cat has unwittingly picked up on
his trousers due to an unscheduled
application of chocolate chip ice cream,
there are rare bouts of normality.
Moments when everything is calm.
Moments when the people mill about,
amicably and politely, whilst the Big Issue
is sold by one of the trains sitting next to
the miniature W H Smith, and the sound
of gentle conversation gives the station a
light, warm feel amongst the strangers
who chat like friends. The ticket
collectors laugh happily as they haul a
rather odd, equally chatty fare dodger
towards the nearest ticket booth.
Suddenly, a disembodied voice cheerfully
announces that, due to a signal failure, no
more train services will be running today.
The station breathes a sigh of relief as the
hundreds of people flood through the
doors, grousing and grumbling, easing the
pressure on the poor building's floor,
giving it some well-earned rest. It sighs,
conjuring up a gust of wind that expels
the old miasma left by the polite, if dirty,
locomotives that sidle off to their houses
for a nice warm drink, and dispels the last
few protestors that stand gawping at the
boards that unemotionally, coldly, dole out
the news that their holidays have just
been cut short by a day. The insanity
finally disappears.
Isabella Williams A2