Made it! Platform 14, the slow train home. It's not too full. Two teenagers are trying to do their makeup in the window reflection. A lady behind me is having trouble with her landlord, and a packet of crisps is being opened and crunched somewhere. It smells like Monster Munch.
The engine rumbles. It's dark outside, but Paddington Station is brightly lit. The platform is empty. We are off.
I woke up this morning to the sound of rain. A quick flick of the hotel curtains showed me the rooftops and chimneys glistening under heavy grey skies. Someone shouted. Then a bin lorry swept down the road, splashing through the puddles outside the hotel. I realised I'd have to change my plan.
In fact, the rain wasn't the only persuader. I put a little weight on my foot. Pain shot through it and halfway up my leg. There would have to be little walking today.
After packing my things, and slinging my enormous rucksack over my shoulder, I shuffled out of the little hotel and started west. With the rain, I reasoned, my best bet was to spend the morning in a museum and then head home when I was ready.
So that's what I did. I went to the British Museum (by tube) and I put all my stuff in the cloakroom. Then I wobbled around Assyrian, Egyptian, Persian and Japanese history. I saw the Elgin Marbles (though they don't call them that any more) and I read the pamphlet about the statues 'transcending culture' and being in 'a place where the world could now see them.' While I'm not certain that they'd have survived if the Brits had left them in the Parthenon, I wasn't sure that the Greeks would see it the same way.
The British Museum is another of my favourites. I'd not been for a while, so it was a bit daunting to see that they had erected a search-point security tent outside. You'll find this everywhere in London these days. Unlike Edinburgh and Dublin, where you could wander in with a rucksack and a friendly guard would shine a torch inside it, in London now, everything is thoroughly searched in almost military fashion.
After the Museum, I went to a little Portuguese/Angolan restaurant round the corner for some 'fine' dining. I did a little work while I ate, emailing Rory and thinking through a couple of problems. I absent-mindedly squirted peri-peri sauce over my chicken and macho peas and had to get an extra refill of 7up from the machine to cool my mouth down. I don't know why I go to Nando's sometimes.
Then I came here. To the train, to home.
On the Circle Line from King's Cross, I was standing, holding a yellow pole on the packed train. At Baker Street, a seat near me became free but I was reluctant to sit in it because it was the priority seat for the disabled, pregnant and elderly. You always have to look after those people. So I stood still, just in case anyone thought the less of me.
A boy got on, about sixteen I suppose, curly-haired with the first sprouts of facial hair poking through his skin. He looked me in the eye (which is odd enough for the tube) and motioned towards the empty seat. I shook my head silently. He looked puzzled.
"Go on," he said, "You can sit there."
"Um. You carry on," I replied, firmly. He reluctantly sat down while I mulled over what had just happened. It was almost certainly just politeness, but I did wonder just how old he thought I was.
We've reached West Drayton. It's dark and wet out there. I wonder what kind of place West Drayton is. And Iver, that's next. What goes on in Iver? Probably not as much as goes on in London.
What goes on in London. This might be a good time to reflect on my trip.
It seems to fit into two halves - the bit before I thought I'd lost my phone, and the bit after it. I'm trying hard to give London a fair hearing without that event though, and also without me damaging my feet while walking round it. And actually, despite me moaning, I think it does okay. The first half was great; the second half, was not.
I've talked about it being famously overcrowded. I've hinted that things are a little too far apart to walk between, and I've given clues about how self-conscious it seems in the light of this year's awful terrorist attacks. All of those things are true - but crucially, not really London's fault.
I could have found a different way to get around. There are lots of options. I could have checked my bag more thoroughly for my phone outside Buckingham Palace. I could have gone to places to see the city from higher up (climbing St Paul's, flying on the London Eye for example, and maybe a couple of other things that would have killed my feet). I did remark once that it seems more beautiful the higher up you are. Even the overcrowded feeling is the result of London being almost too good at everything, and attracting attention because of it. It's where things are, naturally, and so it's where everybody who enjoys things, finds themselves. It's a kind of enormous magnet, bending the rest of the country around it, or perhaps away from it.
I enjoyed it mostly. The Tower was great - it whispered of an old London, one that was very different but just as real. The river was awesome - it reminded me of the sense of permanency of nature, pulsing and flowing right through one of the world's greatest cities. The tourist bits were fun and well thought out, and I especially liked improving my geography of the streets. For all its illuminations, I actually appreciated the buzz of Oxford Street and the general hum of humanity that swarms along it. Had I been born more of an extrovert, I think I would have got a thrill from that.
With all that in mind then, the usual question surfaces. Would I go back there and do it all again? Well. I will be back yes, of course; it's London - it seems inevitable almost. A training course here, a day out at another museum there. Would I want to do the sight-seeing again? Probably not. Well not for a while. And certainly not on my own.
Could I live there? Absolutely not.
In fact I don't think I could survive a month in all that conglomeration of stuff, noise, people and traffic. It's fun once in a while, but even after three days, I just miss home. I miss the park and the stars above it. I miss the gentle ticking clock and the distant sound of the odd train across the valley. I miss the green you see when you drive down Langley Hill, and I miss the smooth clean air of Pincent's Lane, where you can walk to work while the sunshine trickles silently from the dappled leaves of the tree tunnel overhead.
Though, the way my feet feel, walking to work seems like it might be a long way off.
The train rattles over the rails, through the darkness of East Berkshire. Perhaps with every second, home gets a little closer.
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