Follow the Donkey

We used to go to work on the train. London, here I come! We went to the seaside. We went to Addlestone, Liverpool, Manchester, Leeds, Cardiff, Swansea, Edinburgh. We travelled alone. We travelled with Mum and Dad, Victor and Gretel, Brigitte Bardot, excited grandchildren. We saw hills and heather, sheep and cows, sun and sea, power stations, train tracks, a forest of oak and willow and fir and cedar, red kites. We played cards, smoked our pipes, nipped to the loo, read, slept, looked after the baby, checked emails, talked on the phone, argued with our husbands, always showed our tickets to the conductor. We heard people talking, children laughing, children crying, children screaming, driver swearing, classical music, huff puff, cliggidy click, whoosh and whistle, lark song, the rain on the windows, all pitter patter. We smelled steam and oil, people having their proper dinner, three course meal, coffee, red wine. We tasted cheese and onion crisps, Fruit and Nut, Mars bars, Bounty and dust. We felt the bumpy vibrations and skidding, sticky floors, velvet seats. We started to feel sick, but we were happy, looking out of the window, hot and excited, even anxious. Why’s that beautiful woman driving this train? Where do we get off? How long is the delay? Do I need to change? What’s the next station? Are we nearly there?