Where were they when I needed them?

The 7.42 has been a part of my life for a good few years, and so the same must be true of whichever train awaits me at platform 6 of London Bridge to take me from there to my final destination. Those trains come thick and fast, thank god, and there’s not much to tell them apart, so I feel as if I’m familiar with each of them from every angle (inside and out) and that I know their rhythms, their sighs, their rumbles, and their general bearing. And of course I know their colours, too.

So why, this morning, did I walk blindly, deafly and unthinkingly onto a blue train streaked with purple? Why was I one of the only ones among my platform companions to get on? And why did I sit relatively calmly while it wheezed its way along the tracks, pausing for breath every few moments? And why did I not notice that the buildings outside the window were just slightly unfamiliar?

It was our arrival at a station called, I think, City Thameslink that brought me, quite literally, to my senses and brought home to me the divergent path my life had taken. Put quite simply, I was in one place, and my life was in another. So I experienced the full force of a wake-up-call and a shock to the system, both of which were particularly unforgiving in the circumstances – this was one of the few days in the year when my presence was very much required earlier rather than later, and being absent wasn't an option.

Happily, I did make it to my destination on time (where something like 100 students – of the non riotous kind – were waiting for me), so I’ve regained both my composure and my life. But now I'm keeping a close eye on the trains and ­– even more so – on my senses. Where were they when I needed them?