The National Express By Phil Pretheroe

The roar of the car, (or the splutter of the heap), past the shops, past the pubs, and it lays to rest. A run to the station, past the building site, past the takeaway, over the bridge, just making it on to the train. Now on goes the music, out comes the paper, and out comes the attitude, 'don't sit next to me', 8 hours earlier it couldn't have been more different ... A four hour journey here we go, the Humber on the left, will soon be the Thames that'll show, there's a place where there's a life to be had. A while later and onto a bus, (or a coach as I know it) Here the cars don't roar, don't sputter, just glide. No Puntos, no Clios, no 206, no Subaru, no Ford and no utter chav shit. Is this the other side? The houses are bloated, Flat screen telly's and flat cut grass, dogs off leads, and we seem to pass joggers living life to a soundtrack, bright white trainers and headphones to match.

3 hours or 3 million miles away? Life's so different. A familiar sight, the nearest thing on show, Is a 'Riverside' taxi, that passes my window, a small world or a longing for home? Either way there'll be an answer, but I don't want to know. At another station, onto a train, there's no seats left, we're standing at the doors. the first class has room, we can see, we're pushed against the entrance! Leg room I can explain, and a table each, with a lamp for the Daily Mail, and a head rest with a cover, but the same old carpet, that runs beneath our feet, carries on it's journey, to their 12 empty seats. But they won't let us sit, another hour we'll have to lean, I hope they don't enjoy, the look on the face, of the two year old boy, having to sit on his football, and his mother in front of me, turning him away, so he doesn't see, that life's not so different here after all.

Copyright ©2009  Phil Pretheroe

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