It was a busy day in the office today. In fact, it felt as though everybody was there, a feeling which, I’m not sure I’ve had since before the ol’ pandemic.
I’m on my way home now; waiting for the train from Didcot Parkway. The board says it’s on time but I’m honestly sceptical. It’s been a bit like that today - slightly unpredictable. I was like that too. I asked someone whether they managed to switch off when they’re on holiday and before I knew it the topic had ballooned into a chat about when people ought to retire. I span back round to focus on my work while the conversation bomb reverberated.
“55,” said one person. “55?” asked another, incredulously. 67 was thrown around as a more realistic expectation. Unfortunately. I was clicking through emails, blinking away hot tears. This career, I heard myself saying inside my head, was only ever supposed to be a stop-gap before doing the Real Thing; I don’t want this to be it. This wasn’t my story… surely?
‘Life is what happens while you’re making other plans,’ said John Lennon once. I suppose he’s right. He didn’t have as long a life as perhaps he should, but he at least managed to do something.
The train’s arrived now. It’s the same every week: it pulls into Didcot Parkway, the brakes squeal and then the doors beep - eighteen short semiquaver pips before they’re swooshed open by people anxious to go to home to Didcot. Then, I and the small handful of weary travellers with me, shuffle on to the stuffy train and wait for it to push off.
“How are you doing?” messages Sammy.
“I’m on track,” I say, “Literally and figuratively I suppose.” I smile wryly as the sun pours in through the dusty window. I guess that’s true, although I’m still not certain where the track leads and what I’m supposed to do about it.
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