At each station a young girl pauses from her colouring-in to ask her grandmother “Is this our stop?” It never is.
Commuters pour from platforms towards the Underground, a murky grey funnel, like rain water down a drain.
A bright red sign states ‘Beware of Trains’. If you’re not careful some of them might cart you off to London.
At Chester station groups of middle-aged men shuffle towards the exit, Racing Posts beneath arms, Debenhams shirts tucked in jeans, breakfast beers on breath.
You never get used to seeing an Underground train operating over-ground, there’s something not quite right about it; like being a kid and seeing your teacher in the supermarket.
You don’t need to look out the window as a young child down the carriage excitedly points out all the good stuff; “Airplane! …Digger! …Loads of cows!”
A woman in the upstairs kitchen of the Steam Packet pub butters bread with a disinterested yet habitual efficiency.
The combination of a wet tiled floor and inefficient footwear meaning you skid into the booking hall doorway like Tom Cruise in Risky Business.
You can’t kill time at Retford station; you can only prolong its suffering.
A bearded man in a plaid shirt ploughs steadily through an entire pack of Marks & Spencer’s Dutch Shortcake like a gluttonous metronome.