Waiting for the Train - Original Writing

Waiting for the Train - Original Writing I was sitting alone in Pearse Station waiting for a train one morning.

I was twenty minutes early and it was fifteen minutes late. Trains

generally are. They use, as far as I can make out, the same scheduling

system as women. Which is why I wasn’t too bothered – I’ve learned to

make allowances. I knew, you see, that the poor thing was probably

torturing itself with perfectly sensible worries about its appearance

and odour and had to take time at each crossing to ask cars if its new

paintjob made its rear carriage look big. Besides, it didn’t really

matter, because a few minutes later another train trundled in to

distract me. It was extraordinarily crowded seeing as it was a work

day, I felt for these poor bastards seeing as I was on holidays. The

carriage looked like it had been vacuum-packed. I had only seen

crowding like it before when loading cattle for the factory into Mr

Robinson's lorry, and even then Mr Robinson had to use a cattle prod

and reams of foul language.