‘Gone are the days when I didn’t need glasses, I’m afraid.’ The elderly gentleman leans over in his seat, rummaging around in a sturdy, battle-scarred briefcase. ‘Would you like a newspaper, George?'
‘Well I bought a Daily Mail earlier. Terrible rag I know, but...’ George, bespectacled and sporting a valiant whisper of snow-white hair, seems to be disappearing into his starched suit, a little bit like a tortoise.
‘Oh no, this isn’t what we voted for, a Norway thing,’ says his friend, peering at the Evening Standard he has just shaken out. Another man, sitting in an adjacent seat, flicks his eyes in irritation at their chatter.
‘What’s that then?’
‘Well we still have to pay money don’t we?’
‘I’ve no idea,’ mutters George, apparently hopeful of steering the conversation away from politics.
A guy with red socks, a ring in his ear and a bleached quiff, is sitting next to an orange Sainsbury bag that looks like it could be stuffed with his great grandmother’s mink coat.
A brown-skinned girl with silvery-violet hair stares vacantly into space as she chews on gum. I can hear the clattering sound in her earphones from here.
A young couple hold hands while they both gaze at their phones in silence, heads tilted towards the spellbinding, glowing screens.
And none of them have any idea that I’m sitting here writing about them as we rattle through the night on the last train home from London.
People ask me, where do you get your inspiration from?
It’s everywhere and now...