It’s been ten months since I last saw a train.
The weather is just the same, but the station is totally different. The signs are now digitial – the next train will be appearing in 5 minutes. Baffling.
The train pulls up. It is pink, and not a Virgin train. Four people next to the windows have laptops. I feel a little like I have been in a coma. Which, in a sense, I have.
I catch the train to Birmingham (and the bus to the station before that), and all the shops have moved. I am a tourist, a visitor as I wander down the dark streets lined with unfamiliar shops. And, if familiar, somehow glossier, more efficient, selling things I hadn’t thought of yet.
I see MindReader’s blond head coming out of his office. I stride towards him, bags in hand. “Hello!” I say.
“Billygean,” he says, his face crinkling up. “You’re in Birmingham.”
We get a coffee, holding hands at the venue of our first date, and shop until we want to stop.
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