Birmingham New Street.
Red sari, red bag, pacing. Full length of platform, pacing. One two, one two, measured steps, eyes straight ahead. To the end of the platform, pause, look down the track, turn around, walk back, pace. Trains pull in and out, suits pour out of electric doors, surge onto the platform, wash over her, red buoy on the surf, recede, rise up the escalator. For brief moments the platform is hers again. She glides like a dhow, cutting her sure way through the current.

Winchester.
Girlies. Jewelled bellies. Rhinestone bangles from River Island. Flip flops already though it’s only April. They’re going shopping, are counting their money on the platform in-between texts to someone called Maddy who’s late and will meet them lata in Woking. Their heads are from a Russian triptych, dull gold curls precisely curled from shared tongs back in a bedroom that I know will be ankle-deep in tops and shorts and tights and shoes and cardies and Clearasil wipes and a drawer spilling out with thongs and bras and necklaces just like the ones they’ll be bringing home later to add to the pile and find they’d left the tongs plugged in and it had burned a hole right through the carpet.

Paddington.
When’s he coming when he’s coming when’s he coming. Pink Dora the Explorer sweatshirt denim frilled skirt cerise tights four maybe five-year-old legs jumping up and down outside Platform Number 1. You promised you promised she says, kicking whom one supposes must be Mum whose eyes are scanning the board, who shifts the little wheelie rucksack closer under her feet as the orange letters on the boards roll over. They move back then, to the concourse and the seats where everyone’s eyes are rooted upwards while their jaws move around pastries and crisps and cupped cardboard Neros. But not hers, they remain straining sideways where the diesel fumes rise and the big black dragon with the red eyes pulls out not in of the station.

Canterbury.
She got off the Charing Cross train but didn’t head for the exit. I notice because of the hair, candyfloss pink stepping out of the carriage straight into the waiting room. Trains come and go, I’m only here for the perspective, train tracks and charcoal. The inspector peeps in, taking a break from sweeping the platform and sipping his tea behind the door marked Staff Only. Now they’ve got the barriers there’s not much to do. But she’s just smiling nice as pie and doesn’t answer. I don’t know how long he planned to leave her, I’d had enough by four.

Sittingbourne.
And I said to im I said don’t you tek the bleeding piss outa me come round my gaff drink my booze eat my food tek ova the remote as if you own it. My kids ave ad enuff of fellas like you teking ova dere ome fer its dere ome an all innit an ow come you think you can slide yer feet unda my sofa jes like dat … an yeah I know yeah rite dats jes wot Stace said but they neva blinkin listen do dey … anyroad one o dere dad’s getting out dis week an dats why im waitin ere see bound to be on dis train from Sheerness have to lead him off rite God help me when e finds out!

And I wonder what they’re thinking as they watch me.
Or maybe they don’t notice me at all.