[Last modified: October, 25 2024 05:56 PM]
A cavernous space. Echoes. Garbled announcements. Smells of stale food. Confused faces look up at screens. A strange stillness – an announcement – a rush. A riptide of humanity heads for the platform. Another pause.
“Pickpockets operate in this station”, uneasy looks at your neighbour. “24 CCTV operates in this station”. Everyone ‘operates’ apparently – but I suspect there is nothing medical going on.
“I can’t believe you’re still here before me!”, two women embrace. Old friends? They both have bags. Going on a journey together. They’re both here early so sit in Starbucks and have a chat, they share photographs from their phones. Smiles. Giggles. They sit close – good friends but probably not related.
A lady in a light blue trouser suit with maroon blouse looks at the timetable confused. She looks around and spots the help desk. She hurries over. An explanation – but clearly not satisfactory. Both helper and helpee are now confused.
Pink cowboy hats, the national uniform of the hen party, gather on the concourse. One hat is white – the bride to-be – the symbology of our culture is unmistakable.
The advertising hoardings are off. A blank board looms above the concourse – I remember there has been a national outrage that the station has converted the train timetable to an electronic ad hoarding – “JC Decaux” will get no revenue today. 
But don’t worry there is an alternative use. A woman adjusts her hair in the mirrored surface.
A Deliveroo rider with his bike heads from the platform across the concourse out of the station. Then another. Then a Just Eat rider. Then an Uber Eats rider. The start of a shift. Suburban residents quite literally “get on their bike” (thank you Norman Tebbit) to make a living in the capital the start of the afternoon/evening/night shift.
Hugs. Farewells. Half-hearted waves. “Bye”.