The train exits Clapham Junction and I bypass the familiar terrain of Balham with the Bedford and Tooting Common registering on my mental inventory of well defined local land marks. A childlike sense of enthusiasm envelopes me as I anticipate cutting through towns and villages I have never laid eyes on as I embark on my impromptu Monday afternoon jaunt to Portsmouth harbour.
This temporary wave of euphoria quickly gives way to a prevailing sense of impending doom that permeates my consciousness on an almost constant basis in my battle deep in the eye of a 'hypochondriacal storm.' It is this 'storm' that has prompted my departure from the City (something I have never done other than when obliged by work committments in my two and a half years in London).I long for a sense of peace, of clarity of newfound resolve as I wrestle with my conflicting impulses and yearnings in the hope that a navigable path to a betterlife will emerge. You see I feel trapped...utterly trapped. Here I am at 27, battling a reasonably severe form of hypochondriasis/generalised anxiety disorder (take your pick), whilst stagnating in a job I detest and am not particularly proficient at.How do I extricate myself from what can only be described as a quagmire of mediocrity topped up with lashings of fear and anxiety? Well the primary hurdle initially anyhow, appears to be financial. Sure I could take time out to retrain but how do I finance this?"
We are now approaching Redhill," the familiar female voice announces over the carriages internal speaker system. Redhill - a few get on, a few get off, leaving carriage volume static. Apparantly annual passanger usage based on sales of tickets in the financial year 2007/08 meant that approximately 3.5million passangers passed through this little interchange point on the Brighton mainline. I say 'little,' but 3.5m passangers equips this little (woops, there I go again but it does seem little) station with more gravitas than I initially attributed.
I listen more intently now to the future stops on our journey ahead to Portsmouth, the poor condition of my contact lenses meaning I have to squint slightly to make out the rolling ticker tape of destinations presented ahead so my auditory sense suddenly becomes more acute. I catch 'Gatwick Airport.' This ellicits a momentary surge in serontonin which I can barely understand but reason that it is induced by my hope that this approaching moment results in the departure of most of my fellow passangers so that I can enjoy the rolling hills of the English countryside I have so longed to see in uninterrupted bliss.'Gatwick Airport' passes and I observe that a substantial number of passengers depart, and to further improve my mood realize that I am travelling in the correct coach (coach 4 since you ask as coaches 5-8 depart at Horsham). I wonder to myself how that works in practice? Does a new driver with his own carriage attach himself to the departing coaches? Or do they simply maintain their momentum and chug happily along to their final destination?
The jitteriness induced by the grande Americano I consumed prior to departure at Clapham Junction is beginning to marginally ease. This is most welcome. It signifies the beginning’s of a return to safety, to calm. I am always acutely sensitive to the effects of caffeine, and when not in the midst of one of my ‘episodes’ I simply relish the atrophocation of the caffeine induced edges. When, as now I am in the ‘eye,’ the pleasure is tinged with the fear as to what fear inducing symptom lurks in the coming shadows.
We reach Crawley. The train passes a level crossing that elicits strong memories of the ‘Belfast – Larne’ mainline of which I am so familiar. As a teenager I used to travel to see my first girlfriend via this route to her home in Whitehead. The crossing reminds me of the otherwise innocuous stop of Greenisland, where as you exit the station you catch a brief glimpse of a red and white crossing gate enclosed by a leafy suburban avenue.
Finally, we appear to have reached the life affirming expanse of the non-urban arena. I incline my head to the right, resting it on the upper part of my inadequately proportioned seat and I gaze out at the neatly ploughed fields, that impress with their scale and emptiness. When you spend so long in the city, the Surrey countryside can seem like the Russian steppes.
As we continue, the backdrop becomes more undulating, with ‘wind’ bushes clearly visible in the middle distance. As I consider the wonderful calmness the setting brings, the train begins to slow and we jolt to a halt at Horsham. I realize that Horsham is lodged in my mind as the point where the train divides itself in two and we lose four carriage loads of fellow travellers, en route to their myriad destinations for their own unique reason – I muse that I am perhaps the only individual on board who has absolutely no ‘conventional’ reason to be in transit. My journey is not adding to our cumulative domestic output, it is not to visit a sick relative, nor is it even to take a day trip to France… my journey is simply a search for release.
The as yet unmentioned woman to my right finally makes contact with the unfortunate person she has been trying to reach for the past 30 minutes on her cellphone. Her voice is truly awful, although I can’t work out whether it has been induced by some sort of neurological illness or merely another example of the often appalling failings of the British state school system. It is a shrill, throaty bark – the sound one might expect of Pauline Quirke’s children had they ran off and be raised by wolves.
In proper countryside now. I feel I can almost taste the pristine air, despite being ensconced in my warm little moving shell, an imposter lasering through this tranquil, green valley. Hold on a sec, perhaps ‘imposter’ is the wrong description. There is something oddly congruent about this sleek urban shuttle, being comforted by it’s green rural antecedent, looking down benevolently on this young upstart that will long have rusted and decayed when the hills are still basking in the winter sun.
The train begins to slow as we approach Barnham, and I spot a middle aged woman with redwood hair walk through a boggy field, flanked by her beautiful golden retriever. I once more consider the juxtaposition of old and new, as I spot the cellphone pressed tightly to her left ear. Is this now the optimal state for us humans living in economically advanced societies? To exist remotely, while still retaining full connectivity with our burnt out City comrades? It seems appealing, but clearly it is not an option open to all, rather the preserve of a select few.
The train continues south at its seemingly perfect pace, my mind going curiously blank as I let the subtle vibrations of the rock me to sleep, like a cradle for adults.
We reach Chichester and the woman sitting to my right departs. She excuses herself politely as I get up and stand in the aisle to enable a dignified departure. Her politeness chastens me slightly and for a second feel a little wave of guilt for describing her in the terms outlined earlier…..I once more drift back into my state of unthinking calm as the sea of green cascades by until I clearly notice on the ticker tape that ‘the next station is Fratton.’ I wonder is Fratton Park nearby, where Pompey play their home games? Fratton, like many of the stops on this journey is rather innocuous and appears drab and run down.
As we depart Fratton, I arrive almost immediately at Porstmouth & Southsea, but after a brief consultation with a fellow passenger I decide to remain on board to the final stop of my journey – Portsmouth harbour, where living ceases and exisiting begins.
No comments:
Post a Comment