The end of it all

If last week I was enjoying the refreshing breeze that comes with a change in the air, then this week the wind is up and I’m at the mercy of something rather stronger. I’m leaving my job, my routines, my back and forth – the framework to my life as I know it. And this shedding of my workaday skin means there’s rather a lot to do. Leaving work, I’ve discovered, is a job in itself: the repeated announcements, the delving into one’s motivations to satisfy oneself and others, the form-filling, the exit interview, the return of company property. I’m running around settling scores and attempting to leave my slate as clean as clean can be.

And it’s dawning on me that I’m what’s commonly known as ‘demob happy’ – an expression I don’t think I’ve ever turned on myself before. But the fallout from all of this is, of course, that Girl on the 7.42 must cease to exist, and my weekly rendez-vous with this otherwise blank space is coming to an end. Because this time I’m stepping off the 7.42 for good.

And the reason for all of this? It seems to boil down to the following: it’s time I lived in Paris; it’s time I was French for a while; and it’s time my all-too-English son was given the chance to turn into the French child he might, in another existence, have been. (And perhaps a little ambient sophistication will rub off on me and make my Parisian mother proud.)

And what of the husband? He’s staying behind to hold the fort and hold onto his job. But he’s already booked the ferry tickets to make absolutely sure that we do return home at the end of it all.

Abba ringing in my ears

I look just like everyone else – at last. I’m plugged in and I have cables dangling from my ears. It’s taken me a while (it must be at least six months that I’ve had the technology tucked away in my bag) but now that I’ve arrived I see exactly what all the fuss is about.

All of a sudden, and with little effort on my part, my life has its very own soundtrack. And I’ve turned the most prosaic of moments into the most inspiring and the most aspirational. And, since I’m not sophisticated in my musical tastes and haven’t moved on much since my teenage years, I can inject something very upbeat into every moment of my progress. In fact, just existing can be stirring stuff.

Which I’ve realised is a godsend on a morning like today, when the usual fluency of my journey stutters to a halt and our usually loyal 7.42 abandons us to the wilds of Cooksbridge, a station I’ve only ever experienced once-removed through the medium of a train window. (And in fact it’s not bad at all – the sun shines here, everyone seems happy enough, there’s a certain rhythm to the place, a kind of harmony in the air, and the Downs provide the most lovely backdrop. Yes, it’s not bad at all.)

So I think that finally I’m really getting the hang of this commuting business. It’s a question of isolating oneself from one’s environment, taking the occasional unscheduled stopover in one’s stride … and perhaps catching a glimpse of other possibilities.

Because actually next week is my last in this guise, and I can feel a change in the air. I thought I’d be aboard this train for a good few years to come, but, as it happens, I’ve decided to shake things up a little. I’m off to Paris to live a new life for a while. Yes, I can do anything – especially with Abba ringing in my ears.

Like hell

I have developed, in the last two years of my life, a new vision of hell in which I set off from home without my reading glasses. Until two years ago there were other kinds of hell to do with forgetting the essentials, but this is something else entirely. That’s the kind of age I’ve reached.

So just at the time of my life when I feel a mighty urge to simplification, the structure of life becomes doubly complicated. Faulty eyes are nothing new to me (I’m used to the glasses/contact lenses dichotomy), but negotiating that tricky path between the near and far now takes up much of my attention. My multitasking prowess is shot to pieces, and I’m either here, seriously concentrating on the task at hand, or I’m there, taking in the bigger picture. But I’m never both.

And on the train, apart from the odd glance out of the window as I come up for air and get my bearings, the task at hand is where my focus lies. I know that I’m not the first to avail myself of such opportunities for concentration: Stella Gibbons wrote the whole of Cold Comfort Farm on the move, apparently, and of course we have the very recent (and very local) example of Oliver Gozzard and his Commuter’s Tale. My efforts are nowhere near as concerted, but I’m head down, I’m busy, and I couldn’t bear to be anything else.

And if those reading glasses get left behind, then all I can do is sit and stare and wonder: how do all you others manage who let those endless hours slip away unused? Are you really doing nothing? That seems to me like hell.

I really can't thank Gatwick enough

I’m afforded a particular pleasure by the fact that the 7.42 doesn’t stop at Gatwick. I have nothing against Gatwick per se, but it’s the baggage it pulls along in its wake that I have an issue with. And on the odd occasion that I do avail myself of the services of a Southern train that actually serves a Gatwick purpose (unlike the 7.42 which is a Gatwick Express by livery alone), I struggle with the repercussions. It’s like finding yourself in the middle of a fruit & veg market when all you were after was milk from the corner shop. And, if I’m honest, it’s an affront to the well-oiled wheels of commuterdom.

It’s not that we regulars don’t come with our own baggage, but we wield this with grace and expertise – and of course we’re unlikely to have the contents of our wardrobe with us. In my case, I have one bag that has been specifically chosen for its practical qualities and which sits squarely on my knee, providing a kind of extension to the table. And then there’s my neat little rucksack which sits alert and upright at my feet. And of course the rest of my – emotional – baggage I keep to myself. And, unlike those Gatwick passengers, I refrain from showing interest in what’s around me.

But, just sometimes, the tables are turned, and I board a train which is a Gatwick Express through and through; a train whose primary purpose is to serve those leaving the country, but which, in its new extended format, is on its way to Brighton and will drop me at Haywards Heath. And then the pleasure of the Gatwick connection is all mine. We speed out of London with barely a glance at East Croydon, and it’s this ability to make so light of the suburbs – something Southern could never do – for which, if I’m honest, I really can’t thank Gatwick enough.

A very good thing

It’s fair to say that I’m not the most sociable of commuters, but there’s one moment on every journey when it’s hard to ignore my fellow human beings completely. It is, of course, the moment of boarding, that complex dance of politeness and single-mindedness which forms part of the morning ritual. Again and again we tread the very fine line between appearing chivalrous and standing one’s ground, though Lewes is nothing like I imagine the battleground of Haywards Heath to be or – heaven forbid – East Croydon, where the very possibility of a seat is at stake. But if you’ve become, like I have, attached to the idea of your very own window with unrestricted view, things can get just a little bit tense.

What a relief, then, to be seated and settled, with that window seat, perfect view and even an empty seat beside you. But along with Haywards Heath comes another predicament: whether to appear as normal and unobtrusive as possible, or whether to accentuate one’s bulk and one’s idiosyncrasies? The possibility of that empty seat remaining so all the way to East Croydon is only a faint one, but I engage in fervent hope every time.

I know, of course, that chivalry and normality should be encouraged. But I also know that commuting has never brought out the beautiful or the altruistic in us humans, and what we’d really like is probably a whole carriage to ourselves. Which is why half-term is such a welcome fixture in the calendar. Just now a double seat all the way to London Bridge is not completely out of the question. There are far fewer human beings around, and – from where I’m sitting – that seems, quite simply, like a very good thing.

And that's the line I'm sticking to

Apparently, spring is coming, but I have my doubts. As far as I can see, it’s all a case of very wishful thinking.

The crocuses and snowdrops might be opening, but aren’t they only as aspirational as we are? And the birds might be singing a little more than they were when we had all that snow, but – again – isn’t this part and parcel of just willing things along? What really nails it for me, though, is that I’m still wearing all manner of wool and fleece and Gore-Tex. And while admittedly I’m the sort of person who still wears a scarf well into May, right now I need a lot more than just a scarf.

And what does wishful thinking do for us anyway? Far better to immerse onself in the pleasures of a cold environment. A newish electric blanket (dual control, extra foot warmth, and automatic switch-off so that I’m not responsible for my own safety) might have something to do with this very conservative stance on my part, as might a rather pleasing woodburning stove, and the fact that I recently spent a good three weeks along with the sun on the other side of the world. Oh, and the fact that Southern are keeping its trains nice and toasty right now.

But, whatever my ulterior motives for embracing the status quo, spring is really not just around the corner. I’m going to hunker down for a while longer and then emerge, perhaps without winter coat but still with scarf, only once everyone else is considering the transition to shorts and sandals (a stage of development that I’ve never quite reached). Until then, the hatches are very much battened down, it’s not yet spring, and that’s the line I’m sticking to.

The main thing

There was something eerily quiet about platform two when I arrived there a week last Tuesday – as if I’d appeared an hour too early and the world wasn’t quite ready to receive me in its normal, welcoming fashion. Over a thousand commuting days to my name, and this had never happened before. Change is such a shocking thing when it arrives in the context of stability.

What was Vic thinking? Of course it might just have been his traditional escape to Switzerland, but surely his team would have been left behind to hold the fort? And how were all my fellow travellers coping with this unexpected disruption?

A day later, and again I came down the stairs to be greeted by a strange emptiness. But this time I took a closer look: what I had naturally assumed was a poem adorning the door of the Runaway was actually a notice announcing, in plain, prosaic English, that redecoration was underway.

Now, a week on, and everything looks very much the same, as does Vic. Once again, the world receives me in its normal, welcoming fashion, and, once again, I get my tea when and how I like it. Which is, after all, the main thing.

I miss my name

Anonymity isn’t exactly a natural state of affairs, and sometimes I do wonder what exactly a pseudonym is for. Of course as Girl on the 7.42 I’m part of a long, occasionally literary tradition – Georges Sand, Belle du jour, Stig – but, come to think of it, didn’t they all have something to hide, something risqué or at least something that intrigued? My anonymity, on the other hand, is never going to attract attention.

And my own name – something I’ve never been particularly attached to – has over the last few months finally found its raison d’être, precisely because I’d decided to do without it for a while. Granted, when it’s 7.42 in the morning on platform 2, and when I’m seeking nothing but a little bit of personal space and a fast train to London, the dark cloak of anonymity suits me perfectly, but as the day wears on, and as the days have turned into weeks and months, I’ve grown to miss the usefulness, the shortcut to identity that a name provides.

It gives people a handle on you (or me in this case), and now I see it for what it is: a catch-all for whatever I’m up to and whatever trail I might leave in my wake. Which if all goes smoothly, and if I continue to be the law-abiding citizen that I can’t help but be, could be a handy thing. In other words, I miss my name.


Juliette Mitchell

A lot more to it than that

Two weeks ago I was still very much on holiday. But being on holiday, I’ve been reminded, is nothing like talking about that same holiday once you’re back. And by last week I’d succeeded in reducing the whole three weeks of it into little more than a few well-chosen adjectives and an interesting creature or two.

Meanwhile I’ve been catapulted back into the relentless swing of ordinary life, and there’s been, in addition, the pressing need to shop, cook and generally tend to myself once more – a shock after being in charge of nothing more than a kettle and an automatic hire car for a whole three weeks. So the very different challenges of life at home (and work) have taken over, and now I’m in grave danger of allowing almost all that gallivanting to recede into the long ago and the far away.

Perhaps it’s just that interesting experiences don’t travel particularly well and are best left where they are, or perhaps it’s me, not the experiences, that are the problem. Whichever one it is, I’m struggling to communicate. There are photographs, of course, but even I know that showing a hundred photographs is not the way to present one’s holiday to someone showing polite and passing interest.

Holidays and normal life, I now conclude, just don’t really mix. I have no problem with that, but it really does amaze me that the best I can do now that I’m back is tell you about the dolphins and the whale. There was a lot more to it than that.

Just around the corner

New Year’s resolutions have never really been my thing, but a resolution at any other time of year definitely is. I’m always up for anything that makes my life more efficient, more minimal, more succinct (in the sense of clear and precise, rather than short), and I like the idea of the impetus for this arriving at random times of year. So my most recent resolution – to be that little bit more efficient in my dealings with the world – came into effect at some point in October, and is still very much with me.

But if the leap between one year and the next galvanises something in us humans, then all the better. And I like the idea of everyone around me resolving en masse to become in some way improved. Perhaps the knock-on-effects will reach us fellow, but less annually resolved, humans – and perhaps these will then be enough to sustain us all.

In fact, a case in point and one that had a particularly positive impact on my own life: if it hadn’t been for the formal prompt of a New Year approaching, my now husband might still be considering whether to get in touch. We first came across one another in 2002, but it was a New Year’s resolution on 31st December 2004 that resulted in the email I got in early February 2005 (so even once the resolution was made he wasn’t quick off the mark).

Anyway, now that 1^st January is a fading memory and the rest of you are hanging on to your resolutions for dear life, and now that February isn’t far off and the likes of my husband are just resolving at last to put their resolutions into practice, I’m in the happy position of wondering when the next urge for change might decide to creep up on me. Freed from the confines of the Gregorian calendar, the happy prospect of improvement (in any shape or form apart from that of the aforementioned husband) is always just around the corner.

How things used to be

It’s the Tuesday before Christmas, and we’ve arrived at London Bridge just a few minutes late. Which as our conductor has kindly pointed out is rather good in the current icy circumstances. And indeed it is. It’s been a good journey: a double seat all the way, my companions suitably silent, my carriage warm. And, as my last 7.42 of the year, a good way to end.

As you can see, then, my grumpiness has passed and I’m in tune once again with my surroundings. Even a longer than usual delay on my way to London would have been easy to cope with, and perspective – that curer of some ills and not of others – would have done its work. Because now I have other things to worry about: namely, a flight to New Zealand tomorrow (my first flight in years, actually) which, from my point in time, looks distinctly dodgy.

From your point in time, of course, this will all be history, and my worries will be last year’s problems. My cry for help will be purely rhetorical, and any sympathy I do elicit will be obsolete (but thank you anyway).

Such a clashing of one point in time against another is not a state of affairs we have to get our heads around very often any more. It’s a reminder, for me at least, of another century and a time of real letters: questions asked and forgotten before the answers had a time to form, and worries aired and then long gone by the time commiseration arrives. So perhaps consider this column just a remnant of last year’s postbag and an interesting reminder of how things used to be.