bored of excitement – the griefjunkie blog 

Dear Rachel,

I was catching a train at Slough last year, and for some reason it had been delayed, or hijacked, or cancelled, or they might just have not fancied running it at the actual correct time, or something. On the whole, the service from Slough, where my sainted mother lives, into London Paddington is pretty good. In any case, I find that trains are alright if you are not too bothered about what time you actually need to get to where you’re going. The trick is to travel off peak, get a good book and don’t be hungry when you get on, or you’ll get well stroppy once the signal failures, track side equipment problems and freight trains blocking the line kick in and you find yourself staring out of a window at a tiny bit of West Drayton for an hour, bored and hungry and wishing that slaughter was legal.

[Hitting Read More now will reveal suggestions for signage at Colchester station, and, remarkably, the secret of civilisation]

Anyway. As myself and a largish group of fellow passengers were queuing and waiting to get on the next train, I found myself exchanging one of those raised eyebrow looks of resignation, appropriate in the midst of a slightly annoying calamity, or not too serious disaster, with the late-middle aged lady next to me. She had come up from, I think, Windsor, and was on her way to, I think, Southend, to see her, I think, son. This delay meant that she would now miss her connection and would have to spend an hour hanging around at either a) Paddington or b) Colchester. She was all about Paddington to be honest, and for banging down a quick camomile in that weird sort of coffee shop and sushi bar and bun emporium between WH Smiths and Dixons. As I bumped her case across the footbridge, I pointed out that she was better off having her tea at Colchester, as it was a nice sunny day and she could sit beneath one of the excellent signs at Colchester station, which helpfully point out that Colchester is the home of Colchester Zoo, in case you were confused by the name and thought it was in, I dunno, Bexleyheath. I’m surprised that there isn’t another little sign under the main sign, explaining what a zoo is, and then perhaps another one underneath that explaining what a sign is.

My logic was, I feel, strategically sound, as by the time she’d got to Colchester, she could enjoy her tea in the knowledge that she was through London and the journey was pretty much done and dusted. This carried the day, and we parted with exchanged good luck sentiments. It dawned on me soon afterwards that, quite possibly, the mark of a civilised society is not how many pyramids you build, or how many stone circles or advances in the field of genetic engineering you’ve pulled out of the bag, but the amount of small conversations about cups of tea at Colchester station your citizens are having while thrown together randomly when the trains break down.