It’s Saturday night, it’s central station
And everybody’s winchin
Seeking some cessation
of the realisation
that fun is crawling to a halt.
But not before it’s been exhausted, squeezed clean of every sweaty droplet.
Burger king does a roaring trade
If chips were water we’d all be sober.
Chips chips burger chips
Fish and chips and curry sauce
Mixed with drips from spirit lubricated lips
Sauce and slaw and oil and batter
I burned this off already, just through my evening’s banter.
Shoes are pinching,
Heels are stabbing,
Feet on fire
Dancefloors made of burning coals.
Where’s my flats I thought I’d packed
Find the toilets
Oh god the stairs.
Try find change while feeling rage at the hell heat in my feet,
And then it’s 40p to pee. It’s a scandal it’s outrageous.
Contemplate peeing 40 times but I’d end up there for ages.
And now there is the final sprint
Running always running
I’m out of breath I’m risking ankle,
Ticket money coat bag fankle.
I made it skiting through the doors
I slip I slide, glad not to fall.
There’s singing and there’s shouting,
Bare feet on grimy floor
The train’s delayed, I need again,
Toilet queue is out the door.
And finally we’re moving
And I feel like going snoozing.
Bundle up my meagre jacket
And make a pillow for my comfort.
Late night lullaby;
Phone calls home
For lifts and food
Ready waiting pizza,
Filters in, improves my mood.
Looking back I might have liked
To keep track of stops encountered.
Tapping on my shoulder
Takes me from my slumber
To find I made a Platform blunder – reading 6 for 9,
It’s too late, I’ve gone too far, I’ve reached the end of the line.
Photo by the author.
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