The train slides out of the station, silent and imperceptible at first, then people are walking backwards, and finally you come out of the station into a light rain. Heading west from the city, there are few markers, just a sea of warehouses -- Nero's coffee roasting, Odd Bin wine merchants. Then the train turns a corner and Battersea lies, abandoned and magnificent. Stations seem densely spaced, but the express train doesn't stop. They probably don't want to go this direction, anyway.
The sounds of morning: folding newspapers, sipping coffee, the clack of rails. A young woman deftly applies makeup, a skill in the swaying carriage. The high speed trains are precision-engineered; you can hardly feel the movement; this is not high speed. We are perhaps doing 80mph, and the train is decidedly quaint, as the 'buffet' (an airline-style food dolly) trundles down the aisle. I instinctively ask for a tea.
Now we're in the New Forest, which is beautiful any time of year, but the grey sky and recent rain give it an otherworldy aspect. It also means my journeys will soon be over, as the other side of the forest is Bournemouth, an old town known for little more than being on the sea. There are other, more interesting stops on this route, such as Portsmouth that holds the Mary Rose. The train ends at Weymouth, on the Cornish coast, where the pirates came from.
But I have a meeting to get to, the real life interrupting the fantasy. The sad part is knowing I wouldn't have it any other way.
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