Wrote this a couple of months ago while observing life as I waited for a train. Just got round to transcribing it today:
A mild temperatured afternoon was being teased with the steady cooling breeze that carried hints of rain. Not for the first time, I wondered why the station had no seats, and relied solely on the road bridge to provide any cover.
Sitting on the graffiti-covered bench under the flyover I found myself wondering what my options were from here. I wished I could be blasé about the bank letters, reminding myself they were automated and not personalised in any way shape or form, but reading each one had felt like a hammer blow to the guts.
I hoped the train would arrive soon; preferably before the gathering raindrops came back with reinforcements.
A gaggle of pre-teen schoolkids gathered their courage to walk past me on the platform. Their chatter quieted as they passed me in a cloud of sugar fumes before returning to their earlier volume when they felt a safe distance away from adult company. I smiled to myself at the thought that I semed to have become the type of person my mother had used to warn me about.
As in most packs, there was a ringleader who carried the group along; a token girl who was already outgrowing them; and a quiet thoughtful one who was keeping an eye on me. I sighed and opened my notebook, cupping it in the palm of my hand so I could review my earlier scribblings.