Customers are reminded

on the day:
12/04/2012


on the way:
It"s a small Thursday morning gathering on the platform - the florid white-haired gentleman neatly dressed in a chocolate brown felt coat, his shoes shone, the Times in his hand; the glamorous black woman with a head of bouncy curls sitting cross-legged in a pose of unexpected comfort on a resolutely uncomfortable iron platform bench; the slim bloke in turned up blue jeans straight out of a Bros video, a grey zipped jacket and a slightly incongruous flat cap; a few others filling out the numbers as the familiar time approaches. 
"The next train at platform 2 is not for customer use..." says the helpful woman trapped in the tannoy. She is roundly ignored. She says the same thing every day. They've heard it all before. 
"Customers are reminded not to leave bags unattended..." A lesson  long, since received and understood. Long since not noticed, a voice in the wilderness.  
"The next train on platform 1..." Down the railway in the distance the 09:17 emerges from under a rusting railway bridge in panels of gunmetal grey and reddish brown. 
"Parents and guardians are reminded that the station can be a dangerous environment..." The waiting passengers move, almost unthinkingly, a step towards the platform edge, ready to board as the train closed in. A heavily laden mother cajoles a little girl, a bundle of conflicting and contrasting pinks - coat close to purple, dusty rose tights, highlighter pink teacosy hat, Mary Janes almost red - down the last four steps onto the platform. 
Eyes glance to their right. It's a nice one: sleek, white, a yellow stripe, grey underbelly, a faint glimmer in its headlights, and is that the tiniest twitch of anticipation as its nose reaches the regulatory circle of pinprick red lights... with an effortless flick of its tail, like an orca rising for an unsuspecting seal on an ice floe, it leaps from the rail, twisting to its left, its mouth gaping below the yellow stripe and above the grey, teeth showing small and rounded against its maw but plenty big enough and sharp enough to tear through yielding mammalian flesh, onto the platform, clearing it with ruthless efficiency, before flopping back onto the track and disappearing on its route under the wooden facade of the bridge to the north. 
Leaving behind nothing, no witness but a formation of pinprick red lights, six uncomfortable metal benches, a long-blind CCTV camera and a wide-eyed bundle in conflicting and contrasting shades of pink on the third from bottom step down to the platform. 
And she won't be chatting about it any time soon.


on the pod:
This Is How I Disappear - My Chemical Romance


on the front page:
Scandal of NHS patients thrown out in the dark