The day that shall forever be known as Jan 4th 2018 - Part 2



We pick up the story again here at Lyon airport...

Eventually we score the fleet of busses we’ve been promised and it’s late. I’ve opted the shorter less stress route to Lausanne via Geneva to meet a friend there and travel onwards the following day. The journey to Geneva is uneventful bar one child who vents for the collective while it’s mother tries to hush it and the man behind me mutters at them under his breath.

We’ve all had a bad day. But I notice no anger in me. At what should I direct it anyway? The wind? Easyjet? It’s just one of those things innit, we’re alive, they did what they had to and are doing their best to do the rest. The crying child? The mother? No chance. Instead I feel compassion, and then inwardly happy about that, then almost to the degree of smugness about my spiritual progress, which kind of kills it. But I’m ok. And it’s ok.

In Geneva I sprint for the train to Lausanne, I make it by seconds. Good job too! I fellate myself. Next one would have been half an hours wait and it’s already late!

I sit down and try to find the middle. I notice I’m fidgeting again. I can't put down my phone, or my kindle, or my notebook. I do pointless things with my bag, unpacking and repacking. I’m fucking tired. But a second or third wind of adrenaline is still coursing through my system and dispersing itself through movement and mental activity.

I check my phone for the 65,000th time that day. 8 minutes to Lausanne and the warm embrace of a dear friend.

Clunk, rip, screech and grind. The train pulls itself up to a standstill in the middle of nowhere. What the fuck was that?

Rain patters the silent windows, collecting in droplets and racing itself toward earth.

The PA comes over in French. I pick out the words “accident”.

Jesus. What kind of accident? I don’t have the energy to disbelieve anything at this point. Familiar murmurs and ripples, echos of the day, filter around the carriage.

10 minutes go past.

The ticket collector strides through the carriage pronouncing words I don’t understand. But I hear from reactional tones that something has happened and this might take some time.

Something inside me already knows what it is.

I ask a moustache and glasses opposite for a translation.

I’m validated. Somebody has gone under the train.