I was late leaving work, and although I was pedalling to the train station as fast as I could, I wasn’t going to get there on time. Sadly I was still 10 minutes away when my train was at the platform; it wasn’t going to wait for me, and it pulled away on its hour journey to my home town without me.
Shattered and exhausted from all that extra hard cycling (in vain), I locked my bike and made my way on wobbly legs to the cold metal bench in the station waiting room. I had 20 minutes to kill before the next train, which of course morphed into 50 minutes because the next train was cancelled.
So I’m sitting here with aching legs, a bottom with tiny rectangular imprints on it, a stomach that’s rumbling, a heart which is beating louder than a rowdy nightclub and a head with teeth clenched in frustration with the thought that my 10 minutes cost me, in real time, an hour.
If the train turns up on platform 1 on time, I’ll be getting onto it when I should be getting off.