Buildings demolished, all that remains is a huge expanse of concrete; a paved field across which two men with briefcases walk briskly side by side, as if ten years late for a meeting.
A woman clutches a handbag too tightly. A man sleeps with his headphones in, and a half eaten baguette resting on his chest. Somewhere behind me an elderly lady makes an unhelpful phone call.
Commuters pour from platforms towards the Underground, a murky grey funnel, like rain water down a drain.
The carriage was cold, bleak, deserted and strewn with rubbish. It was as if it had been used for a touring production of 28 Days Later.
When I caught the train home from Bristol, I was beginning to fret that maybe I had been singled out by the train companies as a future employee
I’m travelling from Worcester to Reading on the Cotswold and Malverns Line or as I feel it ought to be renamed, The Pimms and Picnic Line.