Thursday 8.05am
No
iPods blaring, no one shouting the minutiae of last night’s conquest
into their mobile, even a seat – maybe there is a God after all.
For
once, wolf-whistling builders en route to the station don’t offend.
Today there’s no room for feminist principles, only for thankfulness
that, contrary to media reports, the turning of another decade has not
rendered me invisible to the opposite sex.
My
Metro horoscope promises “an unexpected opportunity to travel if it’s
your birthday today”. I step out into the pale sunshine at Charing
Cross, convinced that the business trip to New York is in the bag.
Thursday 11.45pm
“This is Dartford. This train terminates here.”
Dartford?
No - surely I’ve only been on board for a few minutes? But as I peer
into the bleary night, the lights in the carriage go out. I rise,
unwisely quick, and lurch onto an unfamiliar platform and the refuge of a
convenient bench.
Eyes
closed, I go over the evening: the surprise party, the presents, the
cocktails, Tom from Accounts. Tom from Accounts? Oh Christ! How can I
possibly go to work tomorrow?
As
I head unsteadily for the taxi rank, I realise ruefully that today’s
“unexpected opportunity for travel” wasn’t to the Big Apple.
Friday 8.05am
Other
passengers pack around me so tightly that I couldn’t fall over if I
tried. My head throbs in time to the rap beat blaring from my
neighbour’s headphones. Every one of my years weighs heavily on me this
morning.
Today there is no spring in my step, no admiring workmen to boost my ego. Only pride pushes me on towards the inevitable at-your-age-you-should-know-
At the station, a triple espresso, yet more aspirin and a lick of lipstick, then it's time to confront the orchestra.
No comments:
Post a Comment