Morning of the commuting dead

On the day: 
30/05/2012


On the way:
The woman in the box: "We regret to announce..."

The platform populace: "Sigh."

The woman in the box (uncaring): "...that the next train will be non-stopping at this station..."

The platform populace: "Yeah, yeah."

The woman in the box (unperturbed): "...due to a zombie outbreak at Otford..."

The platform populace: "Hey, hey. Wait a minute..."

The woman in the box (unabated): "We ask that for your own safety..."

The platform populace: "No, wait. Due to a what the...!?"

The woman in the box (unrelenting): "...you stand behind the yellow line."

The stocky man in a charcoal suit and an almost pink tie steps back, habitually, rather than as a result of a carefully reasoned, rational decision based on a recognition that standing behind a grimy stripe of yellow paint on the platform will protect him against an attack by a trainload of slavering Kentish walking dead (or walking dead of Kent, depending on which side of the River Medway they were infected).

The train emerges from beneath the rust and gunmetal grey motley of the railway bridge to the south, and slows to standard non-stopping speed as it approaches the platform. But today its inhabitants are not the familiar study in indifference, gazing out vacantly, avoiding eye contact with the platform-bound plebs, or intent on their iPhones. They're up against the windows, skin sloughing off ravaged faces; staring eyeballs lolling out, no longer supported in their sockets; moans of wordless hunger escaping decaying mouths, slack-jawed that leave no mist on the glass; decomposing fists banging on the invisible barrier, uncomprehending, leaving gobbets of leprous flesh to slide down; crumbling bone protruding from open wounds. 

Maybe I'll take the bus.  


On the pod: 

Jenny Was A Friend Of Mine - The Killers 


On the front page: 

Cameron ex-aide Coulson held for perjury (Evening Standard)

It's just the way we feel

On the day: 
29/05/2012 


On the way: 
Fascinating. 
Spindly legs carry her down the platform, swinging from high waisted turquoise shorts. Not much of a neck to speak of. But it's what's on top of her head that... fascinates. 
Well, fascinate may be an overstatement but it's caught Jean's attention. 
It's not one of those that requires a degree in Eugenieering; just a straight bar, covered in black fabric of some kind. 'Like a rotor,' suggests Jean. 'In case the train is delayed.'
The woman in the box says, "We regret to announce..." 
The rest is lost as theme from Airwolf strikes up, the downdraft kicks up the dust from the concrete and flatten the grass on the verge, and spindly legs rise vertically from the platform. 
Da dada dadaa da dada da dada  da da da dada dadaa... 


On the pod: 
Boyfriend - Alphabeat 


On the front page: 
Osborne blows hot and cold on 'pasty' tax

Song of the wail

On the day: 
28/05/2012 


On the way: 
The bus pulls up. 
It's a wrong number. 
No one stirs, not the fading redhead sitting in the shelter, dry curls falling onto freckled shoulders. Not the indistinct entity behind the shelter. Not the chap in the navy blue corduroy cap standing in the slim shade of the telephone pole to protect his eyes from the sun. No move towards the welcoming open door. 
So it starts to close. 
And then the high-pitched ululation from the laundry, followed by a young man running for the bus: Oo-oo-oo-oo-oo-oo-oo. Not the kind of siren to stop traffic, it's soft and slowed-up, its batteries in the red. And maybe not running so much as trotting, on tiptoe, as if barefoot across warm (but not hot) sands, or through shallow water,  nothing more than a puddle but still his paper bags are held high as if to avoid splashing. 
Oo-oo-oo-oo. Whose attention does he expect to capture with that kind of ineffectual wail? 
But the driver, let's call him Hawkeye, spots him. The door opens again and the siren singer gradually hops on board and is passed with all the urgency of a sunny Monday morning yawn. 


On the pod: 
29 - Gin Blossoms 


On the front page: 
Football - it is a matter of life and death, says Sol (Metro)

Red, white, black and Greys

On the day:
25/05/2012

On the way:
He survived. Karev.
He survived the plane crash. He's sitting right here on the train, typically troubled but safe and sound.
He's wearing grey cargo trousers and a white Levis T-shirt - you know, the two-horse overalls. It would appear from the red, white and black diagram that two horses, each attached to different sides of America's toughest denims, being driven in opposite directions by men in cowboy hats wielding long switches, couldn't rip a pair in twain.
Granted, it's not as rigorous a testing procedure as being torn apart by wild horses. The beasts in the diagram are plainly domestic animals, heads hung low, accustomed to the yoke of servitude, literally, perhaps, as well as figuratively, their noble spirits broken. Still, tough jeans. Hats off to Mr Strauss.
But not as tough as Karev. Plainly.
He survived the plane crash. He's sitting right here on the train, typically troubled but safe and sound, with his phone out, talking... Polish?
Wait a minute...

On the pod:
Drunk In A Band - Del Amitri

On the front page:
Medics smash house to save 63st teen (The Sun)

Court in the act

On  the day:
24/05/2012


On the way:
They're outside the courthouse. Four of them, on the pavement, recording equipment at the
ready.
Waiting for a glimpse of the black tornado of justice, I shouldn't wonder.
A man with grey hair fading to distinguished white at the temples, wearing a sober grey suit walks past them.


On the pod:
The Arm - Islands


On the front page:
Markets slide amid fears over future of Greece (The Times)