Sweet Monday Morning

SWEET MONDAY MORNING

8.12 am. Enfield Town. A man barely able to keep his bleary eyes open,
certainly incapable of remembering anything apart from his name,
stumbles onto the train. Not only is he bleary-eyed but he also has a
bad back, sustained over the weekend whilst engaged in the silly
pastime of vacuuming. He sits in the fourth carriage by the window,
always by the window, thinking very little. The man opposite, always
the same man, sits reading the Daily Mail, occasionally looking up to
see if anyone has noticed his presence, or to be more precise if the
man sitting opposite him has.

The grey-haired man in the cloth cap who always talks to himself
aloud, usually arguing with his other self, gets on and sits in front
of the bleary-eyed man. That which passes for reality has long since
abandoned him. Still, he seems happy enough.

The bleary-eyed man sighs then gazes up at the sky. It could be rain
later. There's a pretty blonde woman sitting behind him to his left but
he can't get a good look at her without obtrusively craning his head
round. Just as well. Lust never did anyone any good. At least, that's
what he believes to be the case. Being a married man who has never been
unfaithful, he probably isn't in danger of anything anyway. Chug, chug,
chug, and the train is off. "Hurray!" the grey-haired man shouts. "Do
you know what?" he says to no one in particular, "this train stops at
all stations to Liverpool Street."

A young couple at the back of the carriage kiss and cuddle and giggle
and make slurping noises with their Coke cups. Ah, youth, the
bleary-eyed man thinks, full of energy and exuberance, but a bit
annoying at times.

Three ladies in their twilight years get on at the next stop, Bush
Hill Park. One is dark-haired, quietly spoken and invariably
overpowered by the other two. Another is mousy-haired and never stops
talking and then there is the last lady to get on, a blonde Polish
woman who's always boasting about her children's blossoming
globe-trotting careers. She is the one who holds the alliance together,
the pivot around which the other two express their innermost thoughts
and concerns.

The bleary-eyed man eagerly awaits their insights into modern living.
He can see the dark-haired one reflected in the glass partition. She is
quiet, pensive even. She swivels her head from side to side, excluded
from the conversation, obviously agitated. The other two drone on,
unaware of her plight.

"I didn't know what to do," the mousy-haired one says, "I pressed the
switch and nothing happened."

"I'm not cooking at the moment," the Pole replies.

"What are you eating?"

"Salads."

Finally, when she can bear it no longer the dark-haired one says,
"Well, aren't you going to ask me about my dad?"

"Oh, yes, yes," the mousy-haired one says, "how is he?"

"It was a stroke. He had an operation and he's home now. I don't know
what's gonna happen. He can't talk much."

"Don't you worry, love," the Pole says, "he'll be as fit as a kettle
in a few days." The other two women stare at her but say nothing.

The train passes a school on the right. "It must be an old school, my
father used to go there in 1895. I went there too," the grey-haired man
says. "That was when my brother was alive. When he died it broke my
heart, it did." Some people turn round but he doesn't see them.

The mousy-haired woman starts talking about all the operations "her
Sid" has had, the dark-haired woman listens obediently, fidgeting
slightly. The Pole sees a discarded copy of The Times on the seat
opposite and discreetly goes over to pick it up. "All politics,
politics, politics," she mutters as she leafs through. She puckers her
lips disapprovingly at the lack of photos. "No gossip here," she moans
and casts the newspaper aside.

"Do you want to borrow my Sun?" the dark-haired one asks. "And why
not?" the Pole replies. "Yes, yes, that's much better."

"My wife wants to kill me," the grey-haired man announces. "Don't know
why. We've been married fifty years!" He glances at the bleary-eyed man
suspiciously then takes his cap off and strokes his few remaining
strands of hair. "Now why would she want to do a thing like
that?"

A man in a smart suit takes out his mobile phone. "Oh, Sandra. Yeah,
sorry it's a bit noisy, I'm on a train. Talk to you later." He ends the
call and the phone rings again. A friend wants to know if he's
interested in "doing" lunch. "Look, can't talk now, see you later." And
the phone rings again, only this time he switches it off.

The train pulls into Edmonton Green. "It's lovely, lovely," the
grey-haired man enthuses, pointing at the concrete carbuncle which
masquerades as a shopping centre. "You can buy what you like in there,"
he adds, "and you won't get rained on." The large green nameplate above
it should read "Abandon hope all ye who enter here". There is ugly and
there is very ugly and there is very, very ugly, and then there is
Edmonton Green.

The gulls settle on the roof of a house to the right of White Hart
Lane Station. The Pole indignantly points at a photo of Prince Charles
in The Sun.

"Poor Royal Family. It's the Queen I feel sorry for," she says. "And
as for Fergie..."

"Sadly, it's indicative of a general moral decline in this country,"
the mousy-haired one declares.

"They have taken the 'Great' out of Great Britain," the Pole goes on.
"Tell me, please, for what did we fight them on the beaches? For
what?"

"Quite," the dark-haired one says.

"And Charles," the Pole mutters, "when he is to be king, the duffer
will be bald as a cook. Ha!" she grunts and looks out the window.

The train pulls up at Seven Sisters and the bleary-eyed man must
leave. As he makes his way to the exit the grey-haired man shouts out
behind him, "Do you know, Boots in Liverpool Street have any sandwiches
you like. They also have food for children. One pound twenty-five for a
lovely ham and cheese sandwich. I like my sandwiches." The doors slide
open. There is a strange release of tension. Seven Sisters, built on
the site of a nunnery. That's what they say. It's hard to believe. He
descends the stairs towards the tube platform, the grey-haired man
waving him goodbye.

The platform is jam-packed with people, hundreds of them, all hoping
they will get a seat when the tube comes. The train arrives and the
jostling begins. He is positioned perfectly for the opening of the
doors and glides into the carriage. Effortlessly and gracefully he
nestles down on a seat opposite a Poem on the Underground which he
refuses to read on principle. There is the customary avoidance of
glances. It's a motley crowd. He is not so bleary-eyed now, he feels
something beginning to stir in his brain but he can discern little from
scanning the faces around him. He would like to examine some of them
for longer but he knows contact is to be avoided.

The newspapers and magazines come out. He strains to read the
headlines - "Missing US Marine free in Beirut", "Jail for ?15m music
bootlegger", "Wife killer, 100, spared prison". A man looks up from his
newspaper and glares at him as if to say "get your own" and he goes
back to looking at the floor, at people's shoes, at the tube map above
people's heads. "It reads like a thriller but is terrifyingly true..."
it says on the cover of the book the woman opposite is reading. No
doubt it is fully illustrated and signed by the mass murderer himself
at some shop on Charing Cross Road.

A few more stops remain before the final changeover to the Bakerloo
Line. He notices a shapely female bottom. Lust again. No, he thinks,
although he has always found it pleasing to the imagination, his mind
should be on other things.

Oh, God, it's Oxford Circus, he's got to get out. He nearly forgot. He
panics, leaps up, rams his nose unintentionally into the back of a
standing passenger and flees the carriage. He's wide awake now.

"Whatever you're going through, we'll go through it with you" the
Samaritans' poster reads on the Bakerloo southbound platform. But he
doesn't want them to go through it with him, he wants them to go
through it instead of him. His tube train rumbles through the tunnel,
but he doesn't get on it. For a brief moment he wonders if he will
bother going to work at all.

A tourist comes up to him and asks how to get to the Bakerloo
northbound platform. He points to the stairs to the right. "Do the
trains on that there platform go to Queens Park, buddy?" He never
travels that far but the train usually goes there so he says in all
honestly, "Probably." To which the tourist responds, "Probably?! I
don't want to know probably." He tries to explain. "What I mean is it
usually does." "Usually?!" the tourist retorts, "That's no good to me."
Why does he bother? He shakes his head as the tourist walks away
disgruntled.

A few minutes later another train arrives and he reluctantly gets on
it. It's a bumpier ride than Seven Sisters to Oxford Circus but
thankfully shorter. Next stop Piccadilly Circus, then Charing Cross,
Embankment, Waterloo and Lambeth North. Before he knows where he is,
there's one more stop left. He suddenly feels hungry, he likes his
sandwiches too.

The ham and cheese sandwich dominates his thoughts as he alights at
Lambeth North but once above ground he must put aside thoughts of food
and grapple with the traffic to cross the road. Cars and lorries roar
past him belching out fumes, some of which seem to head straight for
his lungs. For reasons best known to persons unknown, there is no
little green man to indicate when it is safe to cross. It amazes him
that no one has ever been run over here, although he has seen some
close run-ins.

It's a short walk now to his office and the end of his journey. A
doubledecker bus passes by and he glances absent-mindedly at the people
inside. A few stare blankly back, a youth on the upper deck raises his
middle finger at him in a hostile gesture, he looks away, disconcerted
and walks on.

This strange building with the reflective glass is his office. He
catches his reflection as he wields his swipe card on the door. "Here
again?" it seems to say. "'Fraid so," he replies. There is no turning
back now. He walks slowly, somewhat despondently up the two flights of
stairs, taps the entry code in and enters the inner sanctum.

His colleagues greet him, he hangs his jacket up on the stand, sits
down at his desk, switches his computer on and goes through the motions
that his work demands of him. His boss is on the prowl again, doing the
daily rounds, making sure his team are all pulling in the same
direction. "How's it going then, all right?" the boss asks. "Coffee,
please. Thanks," he replies. His boss mumbles something incoherent and
leaves.

His thoughts turn to his next holiday. France perhaps? No, their
budget wouldn't stretch that far. It would have to be Spain again. What
does he really want from a holiday, adventure or a nice beach to lie
on? Neither - escape.

Mike, the computer engineer, snaps him out of his daydream. "Psst,
fancy any of these?" he says, opening a bag full of sports shirts of
all shapes, colours and sizes. "Any shirt you like for a fiver."

"No, thanks."

Undeterred, Mike presses on. "Want to invest some money? Turkey's the
place. I know this bank, straight up - 80% interest."

"No, thanks."

"Maybe you'd like some sunglasses?"

No, thank you!

He gazes out the window. There isn't much happening in the street. An
old lady hobbles along with a shaggy dog to the post office, stopping
to let it pee on the lunch board outside the pub. A young woman with a
tattoo on her arm and a ring through her nose pushes a pram across the
zebra crossing, laughing at something. A bored motorcycle courier
stands by his bike at the side of the road talking into his
walkie-talkie. Another doubledecker bus passes by.

He slumps over his keyboard and wonders why then sighs and looks up at
the sky. He remembers being on a doubledecker with his grandmother and
asking her, "Grandma, if all the sky was taken away and all the stars
and planets and space, what would be left?" She replies, "I don't know,
nothing I suppose." "Yes," he says, "but there must be something." To
which she replies, "Then it must be heaven."

Yes, he thinks, it's definitely going to rain.