Platform_14

Age over Adversity Platform 14 with its cacophony of sights, smells and sounds resembles bedlam: children bawling, mother’s reprimanding, commuters barging their way through crowds, dense diesel fumes pollute the air and the aroma of coffee gently teases the nostrils. The monotonous tone of the announcer signals the arrival of the 5:46 from Edinburgh to Aberdeen. I join the ever-increasing assembled crowds, as the ScotRail beast roars into the station. As the doors automatically slide open, we surge forward-moulded together as one-allowing no time for those completing their journey to exit the belly of the beast. Inside, the scramble for seats commences. Being last to enter I claim the only vacant seat as my own. Unfortunately across the aisle are a group of football fans adorned in red and white scarves obviously, celebrating a win with an ocean of beer. Assuming position, I rummage through my belongings for my book and realise I’ve forgotten it. As the journey and predictable boredom commences, my mind wanders to my fellow passengers. Beside me, a long-haired young man (perhaps in his early twenties) is plugged into his headphones, his open Superdry satchel revealing a range of mechanical engineering material I decide he is a student either travelling home for the weekend, or embarking on his return journey to university. My focus is sharpened as he begins to absent-mindedly sing along to the lyrics blaring from his ipod. I doubt it the old lady opposite can even hear: she looks lost, reminiscing on her past. The knitting needles set firmly in her frail, withered hands work rapidly, increasing the rows until there may be nearly enough to represent every year of her life! The beast thunders along at high speed only slowing to a prowl as it approaches the next station, ready to snare more prey. Now in mid-journey the train is becoming cramped and uncomfortable. This deteriorating atmosphere seems to appeal to the mood of the football supporters, their light-hearted celebratory tones gradually transforming into something more rowdy, raucous and sinister. There are now more empty cans on their table, than full. My attention turns from these anti-social idiots to my final fellow traveller: the suited, bespectacled gentlemen nestled next to the old lady. He has a smart, polished appearance. His stubble-free chin, groomed moustache, pristine suit and tie all lead me to conclude he is a senior executive. His laptop is wedged open, and the reflection on the window reveals a collage of e-mails. His phone keeps buzzing incessantly as he apologetically hurries to silence it. “Tickets please!!” echoes down the carriage, as the inspector fights his way through the masses of congregated passengers. His voice has a deep sardonic tone which makes me shudder. His piercing stare identifies a young woman cradling her newborn baby, as she rustles frantically through her luggage for the prized ticket. An orange scotrail-ticket finally emerges from her handbag and the inspector clearly not thrilled with this delay glares at her as he pushes others aside to reach his next victim. Approaching the football fans, he demands ticket-satisfaction, then gently instructs: “Get yer grubby feet off that table!” and “Clean up yer cans!” The inspector’s voice fades off, as he weaves away through more of the beast, and his bellowing volume decreases. The football hooligans once again resume their noisy banter, becoming increasingly aggressive and abusive towards one another as the alcohol assaults their final few remaining brain cells. Fellow commuters slyly edge further down the carriage to avoid the awful odour of stale beer now spreading everywhere, concealing their revulsion in an effort to avoid any contact with the inebriated rejects. I am becoming progressively uncomfortable seated so close to the human zoo and it is evident the feeling is mutual, as the young student has turned up his music and manoeuvred further along his seat. He holds his gaze at the window. The suited gentleman buries his face deeper into his laptop and absorbs himself in his e-mails. The old lady has become tense, and her knitting has slowed. However, I particularly notice, that-unlike the majority of the carriage-she hasn’t averted her gaze from the fans, and stares at them unflinching. Inevitably, the alcohol is increasingly fuelling the mood of the drinkers, and the once- friendly banter is transforming to challenges of physical violence. I’m sure a fight will break out, and scan the carriage wondering who might assist in that eventuality. The old woman opposite pushes herself upright and comes to an unsteady stance. Regaining her composure she hobbles towards the football hooligans, knitting needles in hand. The entire carriage turns to observe this frail old figure bravely approaching these intoxicated idiots. She reaches their table and proffers the following highly enlightening lecture: “Who do you think you are...Do you think your mothers or grandmother’s would be proud of this behaviour'...If any one of you delinquents were my grandchildren I would be ashamed...I am returning to my table now, but if I hear one more peep out any of you” she ends abruptly by shaking her knitting needles at the speechless fools. I stare aghast, as she shuffles around and returns to her seat, resuming her position and starting to knit once more. The objects of her...affection...appear either baffled by her sentence structure, or stunned into silence. It crosses my mind to wonder if they think she is perhaps knitting a football, or whisky bottle. Either way, it matters not, because the culprits are seen but not heard for the rest of the journey.