Musings, on life, universe and the daily small happenings within our 'compound' (the hothouse) concerning writing, music, gardening and jam making, etc. email@example.com
Thursday, 3 April 2014
Building No 37
One of a million or so small concrete buildings that haunt train station platforms. I wondered how many people have sat in here thinking about their destination, escape from someone/something, or perhaps thinking of nothing, mind blank with the routine of another day at work.
I had a sudden image of the three wise monkeys in human form sitting on the three central seats.
Someone stifling a yawn, someone asleep, and someone with headphones firmly clamped to their head.
Odd, how climate effects the aspect of a building — if this had been in Havana, it might have contained a small lively bar; vibrant beer posters slapped across the walls and an absurd shining 1960's car parked outside. However it was in a small empty train station somewhere south of Toulouse on a damp Sunday afternoon in March: no music, no beer and only a small rusting Renault five in the station car park.