"The train approaching Platform 2 does not stop here. Stand back from the edge of Platform 2."
Here it comes, snaking round the corner, a leviathan of glass and metal, rattling along the track at a hundred miles per hour. It flashes past, click-clacking over the sleepers and roaring its unstoppable way through Theale and on to Newbury, Swindon, Bristol, Cardiff: the West Country that lies beyond the vanishing track and the dark grey clouds.
It's gone. The trees shiver and the birds start twittering again. A gigantic bumblebee flies into the shelter, buzzes around my bag, sniffs my umbrella, and buzzes out.
Another automatic disembodied voice, female this time:
"We are sorry to announce that the... 13:32 service to... "
My train is delayed by eight minutes. I start wondering why the voice that warns you of a speeding train approaching the platform is male, while the voice that tells you you're late is female.
Meanwhile another snaking train is about to whistle past like lightning; platform 1 this time. There's a high pitched whine, the engine screams as it speeds towards me. I see it get larger and larger, its yellow face snarling as it grows. A wave of roaring air pushes me backwards as the train flickers by - carriages, laptops, seats, coffee-cups, suitcases... whoosh and gone.
It's raining now; throwing it down. The rain is pounding the shelter and dripping melodiously onto the concrete. My train is still eight minutes late and First Great Western are still sorry to announce it.
I wonder whether I should have taken the bus.
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