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.