Yorkshire, by rail.
I spent the last few days visiting my brother who lives in a desolate wasteland of apathy and broken dreams. He has a neat little space carved out in the apocalypse though so we spent most of our time indoors watching Saturday morning kids TV from our era and drinking red wine by the pint. One of his flatmates had to be up early for an exam but drank with us anyway, insisting she’d ace it. The second-hand guilt washed over me until I smoked a menthol with her at a half past ten and quickly learned she was capable and self-assured so that relaxed my mind. I also learned that seaweed is a powerful food and felt winter for the first time this season, it’s been so warm lately.
After saying goodbye to my brother this morning I prepared to board my first train. Did I want a coffee? I debated it but not yet, I’d wait until Manchester or York. The train arrived and I took my seat, I was sat next to a businessman who asked me if I had a blackberry charger. I told him I didn’t, which was the truth. My new friend and I were sat diagonally from a not quite yet elderly couple. At first they looked sweet, the woman took a selfie of them both and proceeded to upload it to Facebook or whatever. However the almost-elderly man spent the entire journey checking out any and all of the young women who walked the aisle, with his mouth agape and eyes wild with teenage lust, all in front of his significant other. The businessman saw his perverse act and shook his head before checking his briefcase a seventh time for that illusive charger.
I arrived in Manchester to find that my next train was in three minutes and at a completely different station across the city. Balls. This is the exact kind of situation that would have sent me into a wild panic a year ago. I had visions of the pre-help Matt choosing to spend a night on the streets of Manchester over the thought of stammering my nonsensical predicament to someone who could help. I’m bigger than that now though, at least twice the outlaw and almost three times the daredevil. So I did the brave, manly, grown-up thing and called my Mum.
Mainly because I had no 3G and needed to find out when the next train was but also it’s amazing how a familiar voice can keep you from the brink of an anxiety attack. I think that’s half the battle with an anxiety disorder, letting people help you before the fear kicks in. Before you feel the barrel of the gun pressed against your temple. Before you freeze.
You’re only as alone in this world as you want to be kid.
I bought a black coffee at the station in Manchester whilst I waited for a train that would get me home, I always get a dirty look when I ask for one, as though it’s some kind of slur. Maybe it’s because they expect me to ask for something loaded with sugar because I’m under thirty. “A black coffee? Don’t you mean a Double Grande Sugar Frothy Milk Piss?” No, no I don’t. I want it black and bitter to match my soul. Not every millennial is addicted to sugar and not all baby boomers are massive pricks.
I’d almost finished my drink by the time my train arrived but I took it onboard anyway, as a sort of prop I suppose. I sat myself opposite the literature student reading War and Peace, there’s one on every train so it feels safe and familiar to sit in their company. I plugged myself back in and listened to Victoria Coren Mitchell talk about writing and directing a porn flick back in 2002. Apparently it was funny with a gripping narrative but not at all erotic. This description reminds me of myself. The literature student got off the train in Leeds, leaving me alone at the table. I took out a notebook and meandered my way through a story about a girl who hated bees but loved wasps. She was backwards and this bled out into the rest of her life, it’s sad to see even a fictional existence wasted.
