Morphing time at the train station

So 10 minutes morphs into an hour, and if my train turns up on platform 1 on time, I’ll be getting onto it when I should be getting off.

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.

rectangular bottom imprints

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.

Paul

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