There could be more

I may be wedded to the 7.42 in more ways than one, but there’s always the possibility that I might reassert my independence by deciding – on a whim – on a later train. And so it was this morning that I changed my rhythms, eschewed the 7.42 and boarded the 7.55. And how enlightening this proved to be. Between getting up and out of the door – usually a highly calibrated sliver or time – I mused on the minutes at my disposal, and how different life could be. It was a useful reminder that the path I take through my days is just one of many possibilities.

And perhaps my delinquent morning was a good way of clawing back a little control and evading the hold that Southern has over us all. For with every tweak of a number – probably decided on, like so much these days, by the flick of an algorithm – Southern reaffirms its presence, and we find ourselves shifting our rhythms to its own. But I’ve been lucky with the 7.42. So far it’s been steadfast enough, and we’ve suited each other well.

Now, though, my capricious morning has given me a taste for freedom, and perhaps, I realise, the odd departure from my usual comings and goings – my usual themes, my usual parameters – is no bad thing. There could be more.