To do nothing
So I took my camera with me on my long long train ride up north for another interview.
It was a lovely blue-skied day, and I yawned and blinked as I watched the sun rising over the station platform. My shoulders were aching, carrying my knapsack laden with forms, certificates and chocolate bars.
Finally, the train rumbled into the station, red and white striped on the outside and the inside smelling of coffee.
Across from me sat a brown-haired woman, reading from a large book that had "Open University" on the dust cover. She sipped slowly from a large can of Extra-Strong Lager. Sip. Sip. Sip. In 3 hours she had sipped through 6 cans of Extra-Strong Lager (purchased from the dining car of the train) and 3 bottles of Guinness (appeared from out of her handbag). It was only 9am by then.
"Get it together. Get it together. Get it together."
I squeezed my eyes shut, and opened them and saw wagtails sitting and swinging on telephone wires, black-faced spring lambs prancing across a grassy knoll, an orange-jacketed man leaning on his broom and watching a squirrel, a group of candy coloured girls on candy coloured vespas, an old man sitting on a bench with his eyes shut, enjoying the sun.
The train pulled into my destination with a screech and a whistle. It was a ten minute walk to the hospital where I had my twenty minute interview and was back again on the train platform in less than an hour from my arrival.
An elderly man shifted in his seat, trying to get comfortable. He caught my eye and smiled. "The National Rail is supposed to have more money this year, but I never see it spent in this part of the country. This is like the land God forgot."
I watched as the train pulled away from the grey city, clouds gathering ominously over it. My mobile phone rang, and I listened as the medical staffing officer rabbitted on about "first reserve" and "sincere apologies".
The ride home was long and quiet.