Stream of Thursdayness

The train slides over the Pennines. I scrutinize the glimpses of pink sky that brushing the stillsnowy hills. Trees spike their stillbare talons jaggedly into the smokey, cupcake sky. A reminder that, despite the sun glory of the last few days, spring has yet to settle in.

I am prodding a plastic fork at a too-small pot of pasta, purchased on a hungry whim at Leeds station. I have already devoured a tiny pot of Greek salad. I glance guiltily at a piece of cucumber nestling underneath the polyester-clad thigh of the woman next to me. I flicked it there moments before in an attempt to snag a tomato. It has gone as yet unnoticed by the vacant-looking owner of the thigh, caught up as she is in her own commuter dreams. I toy with the idea of flagging up the tiny green high-diver, but decide against it and picture her puzzling over the small olive oil stain later on.

This morning I wheeled gleefully up to Manchester Piccadilly station, before locking Glinda up safely alongside the other faithful steeds in the bike locky uppy area. Swinging my helmet like a badge of honour I wandered into the station to find I was twenty minutes early for my train (I mentally patted myself on the back for speedy cycling). Ticket and grotesquely over-priced soya latte bought, I found a bench and waited on it. To amuse myself I decided to pick a person and watch only them. Luckily for me I picked a very pretty girl, blonde hair piled precariously on her head, meticulously designed to look completely non-meticulous. Lips pursed and eyebrows arched, she wandered delicately through the station, pretending to be elegantly unaware of the numerous lascivious gazes of the suited commuters. Oversized bag dangling from undersized arm, she floated through the crowd, pausing only to throw a disdainful glance at a pigeon who had deigned to nearly cross her path. She wandered out of sight, so I picked someone else, and so on. After unfairly judging the Great British Public for a delicious fifteen minutes, my train was announced.

Still clutching my café a la pretension, I found a good seat and began to plan my choir session. Lots of warming up today, I decided. I found some songs that included the word 'sun', so that we could all sing our happiness through the roof.

The hall was full, and the children raced around. We sang for an hour, I bounced about in front of parents and kids, music in one hand and wild gestures in the other. Today I felt high, the sun streaming through the windows and spring tantalisingly close.

Afterwards, happy, I sauntered back to Leeds station. I stopped to look at some shoes I can't afford, and instead frittered away my cash on small pots of food that in no way filled me up.

The train pulls into Huddersfield. The sky is resplendent in its papal robes. (You know you're onto a good sunset when even the Huddersfield skyline looks majestic.)

I read until Manchester, when I am surprised by the station and have to tumble from the train in a panic.

Glinda awaits, and I switch on her lights and wheel joyously home, through the deserted streets of Moss Side and up to my front door. I put the kettle on and consider chocolate, still feeling the sunset on the backs of my eyes.