I’m on the train from London Paddington to Honeybourne station – fifteen minutes drive from home.
I had to catch the 20.50 from Paddington, as my usual train – the 19.50 – no longer appears to be scheduled. I guess that trains which take people away from London – as opposed to into it – don’t really matter in the scheme of things. (Hah! How quickly I’ve turned into a bitter, resentful out-of-towner!).
I’m trying to write, but I’m being distracted by the man and woman opposite. They don’t know each other, but the man (who’s maybe early-forties, with a North West accent) has struck up a conversation with the woman (who’s maybe mid-thirties, with a South East accent) out of the blue.
He’s asked her about the book she’s reading, which is something serious-sounding about microbes, and they’ve been chatting away ever since. At the moment, the man appears to be talking about keeping cows hydrated (?)… which I think might somehow be related to the book.
I’m amazed at the man’s audacity. He’s clearly trying to pick her up. He’s making a good effort of it. I’d say she’s out of his league, but she’s still chatting away to the fellow.
He asks her which station she’s getting off at (which sounds a bit creepy, come to think of it). Her station is a couple before his… so, the question is, will he ask for her number (or email address) before she gets off? In this very public arena? I’m almost feeling worried for the guy. What if he crashes and burns spectacularly on the Great Western Railway? I’ll know shortly.
I try to remember if I was ever brave enough to randomly hit on women on the train. The answer is a resounding no. I was always a nervous chatter-upper… terrified that any girl I might talk to might think ‘why am I talking to this guy? He seems a bit… OCD’ (btw – I’ve actually been diagnosed with OCD, so I’m allowed to say that!).
I dated girls before my now many years with Lizzie… but never had a long-term relationship. I think that was due to a mixture of shyness and laziness. Mostly shyness, though, probably.
The guy (who lives in the Cotswolds) has now revealed he works in the car industry. Is there anyone who lives in a fifty-mile radius of our house who doesn’t work in the car industry?
Uh oh… he’s just been talking about the cars he manufactures and the conversation has begun to lose momentum. The lady’s gone quiet. ‘Do you work full-time?’ she now asks… the fellow’s back in the game!
‘Is it a biggish company you work for?’ he now asks her. If he were Lesley Phillips, he’d be wiggling his eyebrows suggestively as he said it. There’s no denying it. I’m a little envious of this guy’s bare-faced cheek. Why was I never this brave?
It’s because I’ve always overthought things and been too thin-skinned, is the answer to my own question above. Oh well, it didn’t stop me pulling Lizzie! Although she always insists – in one of her favourite dinner party anecdotes – that she only fell for me, because she liked the attractive way my old London flat was furnished. Which was unfortunate, because it was mostly furnished by my mother.
The fellow sitting opposite me on the train is now talking about the Cotswolds. Safer territory than car-manufacturing or cow-hydration, I’d say.
I suddenly realise what a big eavesdroppy, voyeuristic type I’m being. In my (feeble) defence, though, they are talking very loudly. It’s hard to ignore them.
Enough! I’m going to stop listening to the conversation and get back to my writing!
OK. You’ve got me. I’m still listening to their conversation. It’s too interesting to stop! Anyway, there’s been a major development. The lady opposite me on the train has just rung her kids. They sound young. Is this a tacit way of saying to the guy chatting her up… back off?
But now, the guy is talking about his kids too! They sound a bit older. Is he divorced? If not, why’s he chatting this woman up?
The slow drip-feed of information, between these two, is as infuriating as it is fascinating.
One more stop to her station. What’s going to happen?! Is he going to ask for her number/email address or not?
They’re now talking about each other’s star signs…
We’re now getting near to her station. The fellow has made a passing reference to the lady’s husband; he hopes he’s OK looking after the kids this evening! The woman doesn’t confirm or deny she has a husband. I can’t bear these subtle mind games any longer!
Now the fellow starts talking about his wife! My God. Perhaps he was just being friendly all along. Or maybe he picked up on the lady’s ‘I’ve got kids’ tactic earlier… and is just trying to play it cool. Or maybe he was hoping to start some kind of illicit train affair when he struck up the conversation? So many possibilities. The mind boggles!
Eventually, the lady’s station arrives and she prepares to get off. After all that, the man doesn’t ask for her details. As we pull into the station, I feel like we’re all getting off a shared emotional rollercoaster ride. Is this how it ends?
Suddenly the woman turns to the man and tells him her name. ‘What’s yours?’ she asks. I’m sure the guy says ‘Thor.’ If that’s correct, it doesn’t suit him.
And with that, the lady is gone and this quite long Brief Encounter draws to an end. I guess the problem with trying to start secret liaisons on trains, when you’re older, is that the person you’re chatting up is more likely to be married or divorced, with their own kids (or with someone else’s). Just like in Brief Encounter. Things get more complicated, when you’re older. It’s not like being in your early twenties – footloose and fancy free – anymore.
I suddenly feel a wave of relief that my days of trying to chat up strangers are behind me. I was always shit at it, anyway.
The next day, I tell Lizzie the whole tawdry tale of the man and the woman on the train, as we take the dog for a walk.
Lizzie’s interested. She wants to know if the man does get the woman’s details in the end. She seems disappointed when he doesn’t. The old romantic.
‘Was the lady very pretty?’ Lizzie suddenly asks, after I’ve concluded my story.
I try to shrug nonchalantly, as if I hadn’t noticed.
‘Were you terribly jealous, throughout all this?’ Lizzie now asks, mercilessly.
‘Noooooo, not at all. Of course not! What do you mean?’ I reply, sheepishly.
Lizzie smirks, knowingly. Of course you were, you predictable, pathetic man, her expression says. How well she knows me. And understands how rubbish mankind (or, rather, malekind) is in general.
March 2023
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