stationery thoughts

The world beneath your feet: underneath the hurry of well-polished brogues, battered trainers, Ugg boots and vertiginous hoof-manglers; underneath the joyful swirls of discarded Subway wrappers; underneath the geological layers of chewing gum and cigarette butts…what worlds upon worlds lie beneath your feet?

The underground railway. That marvel of the industrial age – the railway, urging its path across the fields of England, cutting swiftly through hill and dale. The railway, a paean to the ambitions and achievements of the noblest of creatures: man. The railway, with bridges grandly thrown ‘twixt land and land. The railway, delving deep into the earth, and terminating in the hollering yokel-pit that is your average underground station at 10pm on a Friday night.

Basics Gin stared irately at the timetable. Its regimented numbers meant nothing to him. Even his own name was a mystery. This was clearly the annotated version of the timetable, for somebody had attempted to amend the details for the greater benefit of the travelling public. ‘Sha ‘01′; ‘Titch, Pat-o, Chig ‘03′, read these legends, and who knew what that meant? These were marks for more highly evolved minds to interpret.

Teens gathered surreptitiously at the edge of the platform. Basics Gin shuffled towards them. ‘Gorraligh’?', he articulated. The teens stared at Basics Gin with unseeing, dead eyes, their minds ploughed and driven by the subliminal messages fed at deafening volume through their iPods. Basics Gin shuffled away from them. With shaking hands he pulled a tobacco pouch and Rizla papers from the pocket of his stained denim jacket.

‘Hey, mate, you can’t smoke here’, spake a righteous voice in the wilderness. Basics Gin was confused. The wind rushed down the tunnel, seeming to carry with it words of no import. It carried something else, rushing at speed, an orchestra of metallic rhythms. Basics Gin stared blankly in the direction of the impending object. Could he smoke it? The train arrived at the platform. Was it stationary, or stationery? The ill-educated masses awaiting to embark could not determine. The train became acutely embarrassed, and began to wonder if it ought to be a Rexel file and a set of highlighter pens.

In the upper level of the station, the annual Pigeon Olympiad had begun, with its aerial displays. It’s a little-known fact that a pigeon will make a serviceable aerial, but don’t expect to receive a good signal. If you have one, tune in next time.