Low life | 8 November 2012

I was on a train last Sunday evening, quite late. Reading in Berkshire to Redhill in Surrey, a journey of about an hour and a half. The train was three carriages long and we trundled at a leisurely pace across country, with frequent stops at freezing, deserted platforms. I was sitting in the front carriage with my back to the driver’s cabin, on the left-hand side as you look forward. The driver and I must have been sitting back to back because I could hear him speaking on his phone now and again. I had the carriage to myself.

One of the stations near the end of the journey was called Dorking Deepdene. We were on time, perhaps even a bit early, because the driver eased his train very gently into the station and only the lightest of touches on the brake was needed to finally arrest the momentum. A second before the train came to a stop, however, with about ten feet to go, I felt the wheel directly under my seat ride over a bump.