A man in a hat sits on the platform
Drinking a coffee
And eating an Eccles cake
He is sixty three
But likes to think he looks younger
His thoughts right now
Are a bit mushy
Probably because he has a cold
Although he wonders if it might be
A sinus infection
His hat is dark grey
Not exactly a pork pie hat
Or a Trilby
He doesn’t know its name
He considered dying it black
And tying a colourful ribbon around it
Red or blue
A strong primary colour
But his wife told him
That dying would put it out of shape
He is sitting on a white, metal seat
With rows of small, round, perforations
Everywhere is wet
From the early morning rain
But not the seat
The platform’s awning protects it
He bought the coffee
And the Eccles cake
In the platform café
The coffee is black
And has been delivered
In a cardboard-coloured corrugated cup
It has one sweetener in it
Saccharine
He hasn’t got used to the taste
Delivered?
He wonders what will happen to the English language
When he is dead and gone
The Eccles cake is sweet
It’s a long time since he ate an Eccles cake
How long?
He has no idea. Five years?
Twenty five years?
He remembers the way the granulated sugar
Scatters everywhere
And clings
Like a sticky frost
How he’d have sugar and pastry stuck
All over his dark blue suit.
That was always a problem.
In those dark-blue suit days
His thoughts are mushy.
They are dodging about
All over the place
He is thinking about writing a poem.
This poem, perhaps
He’s also watching
The train arrivals board
And gazing at the track
And wondering why someone doesn’t clean up
All the litter
And he’s thinking about
The taste of the coffee
He’s tasted better
Bitter
Bitter? Better? Hmmm…
And the lines from a song
Keep interrupting his thoughts
Look out! There’s a monster coming
The song was by the Bonzo Dog Doo Dah Band.
The cold is a nuisance
Sore nose
Awkward breathing
Background headache
Chills. Lethargy. Aching muscles.
Waves of feeling sorry for himself
Which he tries to rise above
It’s important, he knows,
To be positive
He’s thinking about his visit
To Roehampton University
Where he will talk
To over a hundred students
About their experiences in schools
There are no bins on the platform
And so, momentarily
Leaving his black case where it is,
And hoping that it won’t be spotted
By a porter
And taken to a patch of wasteland
And destroyed,
He takes the Eccles cake wrapper
Back into the little café
And drops it
In the small rubbish receptacle
By the counter
When he returns
His case is where he left it
He thinks that at Victoria Station
They probably have a steel and concrete
Reinforced room
For blowing up the cases and bags
That have been left unattended on the platform
But probably not here
He wonders where they would take it
Is there any wasteland nearby?
He opens his case and finds his notebook
And begins this poem
He writes about himself in the third person
He thinks, Maybe this is more of an account
Than a poem
It’s too long and rambling
He’s reading Marcel Proust’s
A La Recherche du Temps Perdu
In fact he has his copy in his case
He hopes it doesn’t influence his writing
Too much
He’s more a fan of short sentences
The train arrives
Catching the man in the hat
Unawares
He grabs his case and boards the train
