I was at the train station 15 minutes early, so like a good A215-er, I got out my trusty notebook and pen and did a freewrite.
Sitting on a bench at the station platform. The wind’s blowing my hair, it tickles my face. My pink bicycle is propped up on the wall where the back door of the cab office is. I’m not blocking it as the sign says to use the front door. I can hear men in the cab office. Chirpy cockney cabbies or whatever the Kent equivalent is. People are crossing the footbridge to get the train going towards London. I’m on the Ashford bound one, off to a job interview for a job I don’t want. The thought of sitting in an office all day again depresses the life out of me. The woman on the tannoy is announcing the train on the other side. The 14:40 to Charing Cross. It’s only 14:05 so she’s a bit early.
My train is going to be a minute late. It’s warm today, the sun is heating my face and I’m glad I didn’t wear my heavy jacket as well as my suit jacket. I have to leave the jacket unbuttoned as I’ve put on weight since the last time I wore it and I’m bursting out and it looks crap.
I stand up to look at the screen. It now says it’s going to be 3 minutes late. Fuck. I’m cutting it fine as it is, as I’m cycling from the other side.
They’re calling my train now but it’s not here. If I don’t get lost on the way I should be ok for time. There’s a train on the other side. She must have said 14:14 not 14:40. At least she’s clearer than the London ones. Someone else is crossing the footbridge but she’s not hurrying, even though the train is there. They must take it easier round here.
There’s people coming down the footbridge from
I’m on the train with my bike, I hope it doesn’t fall over.