A Roly-poly disaster
IN my travels, I’m often compelled by delays to use station platforms as offices. It’s inconvenient and frequently frustrating, but, this week, three station waits gave me unexpected pleasure.
East Midlands Parkway huddles improbably beneath eight vast power-station cooling towers. Splendidly bathed in evening sunshine, I became quite enamoured of them by the end of an hour. Two days later, Newcastle was an exhilarating contrast. Here, I escaped from the commuters bustling to work and joined a small group of trainspotters at the end of a platform. While they enjoyed the locomotives, I admired the keep of the neighbouring castle. Finally, there was the rural peace of Alnmouth. Locals conversed cheerfully across the silent tracks and I decided to go in search for a cup of tea. My delay, I was kindly assured at the caravan shop, was nothing to the one caused earlier in the week by a suicide on the line.
One of these prolonged waits saved me from the task of preparing a children’s costume of a Roly-poly Bird for school. I was inwardly congratulating myself on the release until it emerged that colourful plumage had been cut from a pile of crucial papers that—with no one to protect them—had been gathered from my desk. JG