A Literary Girl On A Train.
Tim Robson opposite The Lady Writer.
The 20.23 from Clapham Junction
So, I'm on the 8:23 from Clapham. A late night in the office as I wanted to send off my short story 'Parallel Tracks' to some pay-to-play literary competition. Hard graft made easier by some cheap Cava bought from the petrol station on Wandsworth Road. I played Terry Hall, tweaked a few words, drank a glass or three and sent away this soon-to-be unplaced entry. The artist is unloved and unknown in his own time, in his own country.
Disenchantment achieved, I rushed off to Clapham Junction and got on my train with two M&S cans of Gin and Tonic premixed for sustenance. Sit down at a four table. Only one quiet bloke diagonal to me - great. Crack a can. Whip out the Mac. Stories to write. Websites to edit. Usual stuff that an under appreciated writer does. We work - ALL - the time. In silence and unobtrusively. Toilers of the word; never satisfied. (Read my F.Scott Fitzgerald critique if you want to know more about literary envy).
And then - opposite me - sits down a writer - a 'real' writer.
A Real Writer. They wear Scarves.
Let me describe her shall I? Not unattractive. Slightly boho. Wild and wiry hair. Glasses pushed onto her forehead. Voluminous scarf wrapped around her neck (I believe this is obligatory if you are a 'writer'). Flowing robes of shabby chic. She takes up her space with purpose and volume. She owns that seat and, hopefully, my attention. The quiet bloke is gently snoring so I’m the sole audience for her theatrics.
Performatively, she gets out a couple of beaten up leather notebooks and an ink pen. She fidgets. She attitudinises. She makes faces and waves her fingers around directing the very air with her abundant creativity! She looks concentrated. As East Croydon is attained, she absorbs the muse hidden in that deserted platform. She writes furiously. She gazes off into the mid-distance as though being filmed. She smiles outwardly so that everyone can see she's written a bon mot. She flicks pages quickly and noisily as she writes her truth.
She is a stage version of a writer.
Admire me, plebs!
I realise I am in the presence of greatness. Sat at the Brontes' table as they pen their classics. With Thomas Hardy as he tours Cornwall in 1912/3 researching the Emma Poems. With Oscar Wilde in Hove as he writes 'The Importance of Being Earnest'. Partying with Brett Easton Ellis in the 80's perhaps, or sharing a car with Jack Kerouac in the 50's. Someone good, anyway.
I speculate what could she be writing that demands such a show. A poem about the beating rhythm of this Southern train, perhaps juxtaposed with the regularity of the quiet blokes snores? A paean to her cat, Virginia? Perhaps a diatribe about being objectified by a cis-gendered white middle aged man looking disapprovingly behind his shield, his laptop? A first novel about a sensitive but misunderstood writer with a bastard boyfriend?
Who knows? Literary greatness sits at my table!
Yeah... Me.
She gets off at Haywards Heath never to be seen or heard of again until immortalised here on this blog. Well, readers, at least one of us got something productive from the journey. I crack open another 8% M&S can of premixed G&T. The train speeds further into the darkened Sussex landscape.
The quiet bloke wakes up and stumbles up the carriage to find a working toilet and I close my laptop.
Quotidian Notes
1) Yeah, I’m a bitch. Deal with it.
2) For more people watching rants I’d advise, nay urge, you to read my Thoughts from a Bar in Antwerp. Or perhaps my Thoughts from BOHO bar Krakow. Or just go to my Features Page and choose your own next read.
3) This was published years ago, hidden like a lost treasure with an impenetrable URL. Forgotten by Google’s bots, stranded alone with no internal links. Read The Battle of East Croydon for more train related stories. Warning! Robust views aired frankly!
4) I want to thank the Literary Lady on a Train. If she reads this - unlikely Tim - I hope she sends me her poem about her cat. Can’t get enough of that.
