The Glass Age Diaries | December 9 2024
Here on the train platform there is a man with a bright orange cardigan and a sunshine yellow wheelie case.
His rucksack is yellow and black like a bee on his back and the yellow stripes on his trainers complete his look.
A girl wears heavy set black rimmed glasses and swipes her phone, head to toe in blue. It feels like interesting people live in Stroud. A bespectacled lady crosses my path dressed as if it’s the 1940s.
The three men to my right are almost exactly the same height and build, with matching black puffer jackets. Their friend arrives moments later, his puffer is luminous green and his demeanour is different to the others too, they appear almost suspicious of him as he holds court and vies for their attention
As we get closer to the trains arrival time the pace of the passengers gathering increases. A trio of tall folks in mountaineering gear, boot cut water proof trousers turn heads back and forth seeking out the café.
I have a yearning to brush my teeth and lie down on crisp white hotel sheets to sleep. Instead I’m sat on this GWR train at the start of a 25 hour journey. My mouth feels dry, and I suspect I’ve drunk way too much coffee over the previous 25 hours.
At Heathrow airport the car park is familiar. And the Queens Arms pub where I saddle up on a high stool for a glass of water and yet another black Americano. Of course I’ve followed this trail before but it’s different every time; I don’t recognise the person who remembers this path.
An off duty member of staff chats to a colleague at the bar, leaning in. Her Snow White nails scratch at her razor sharp dagger shaped eyebrows, seemingly tattooed onto her clear complexion
The still water is served in a heavy set, dark blue cut glass, ice and slice of lemon. It’s the perfect drink but I’m worried about the cost.
A lady in tight white jeans, a pink faux fur jacket with large butterfly broach approaches the menu board, pauses and turns away. What does she know that we don’t? Where else is there to eat?
To my right a young mother shouts to an invisible other as her nine year old daughter uses their luggage trolley as a dance partner, joyfully swinging back and forth. Her mom has fallen victim of some convoluted consumer issue and is currently lost deep in a familiar frustrating maze of numbers, passcodes and security information as she attempts to disentangle herself.
The manager of this pub restaurant wears an oversized suit jacket and leggings and appears to have set up a pop up office in the middle of the concourse opposite the bar. She is hosting 1 to 1 consultations with her staff in a directive tone of voice loud enough for me to hear her words from where I’m sat five meters away. She looks up at a tall man with long hair and exerts her authority, firing lines without pausing for breath, and she appears frustrated as they get soaked up by slow head bows of the tall, long haired member of staff she is addressing. The one sided exchange lasts about 4 minutes before he edges towards the exit, she turns lifting her arms up in the air and down again in a gesture that represents a high sigh, before whispering ‘see you Wednesday’ in a consilliatory tone.
A dejected and tired looking member of staff walks past with a computer screen in each arm, swinging low at this waist. In my tired state he appears to me as a robot man with screens for hands.
Finally at the gate there’s a chap searching high and low for a power socket, white plastic laptop power cable dangling from his hands and scraping the floor as he trawls the benches, swooping up and down checking for an outlet. The zip on his rucksack is slowly opening and I wonder if he’ll notice in time.
I’m in group 4 for boarding, the cheap seats but I’m happy to sit and wait it out.
Chris Cleverley is the last voice I speak to on home soil. We laugh and I let go of something, he’s a lovely man I’m so lucky to call a friend. He had a good show at the Hare, I missed it as I was on a session but we enjoyed the A Winter’s Tale show we did together and we promise one another we’ll do a little more next year.
There’s a school group all in full uniform, blazers and all for the 15 hour flight! That’s dedication I guess.
Two men to my left have thick, flowing rich hair on top, and excitedly share Tokyo bar stories. Now I’m in the queue the Japanese faces multiply, patiently waiting in silence to board. The silence is broken by a father speaking in muted tones to his daughter. Familiar phrases I recognise, but stand on the edge of understanding.
Taiga is sleeping. One step in front of the other and I’ll get there….