The 7.39 to London, the crying baby, the man talking loudly on his phone;
We whisper, we chatter, we read our Metro and get awoken by the famous Nokia tone;
Surely today will be better than yesterday? Oh but for just two hours more in bed;
Why do we go out? Why do we do the office parties? We always inevitably complain about the gremlin playing the drums in our head.
We pull in, it’s a mad dash for the door;
Which side will it be today? Are we platform five or is it four?
The old man is in position to collect the used newspapers, the stunning girl is wearing black;
Must Focus, head down we must get to the barrier first but be aware of the city boys and the inevitable umbrella attack.
Onto the road we go, it’s a red man, who cares the cars’ will have to wait; be careful of that bike;
Yet another new Starbucks, the girl on that bus was nice, must buy The Sun it is now up to 50p – yet another price hike.
The final straight, just the underpass to negotiate, oh the poor homeless man, is today the day we buy the Big Issue?
No we must plough on, stairs two at a time, into the building we go, the second lift will have to do.
A flash of the badge, open the door, into the office we go;
Quick get to our desk, hit logon, enter our password and remember we sit opposite the boss so say hello;
From Rayleigh to our desk in an hour and two minutes, that is definitely our new PB,
That’s my life – the 7.39 to London, but this life is just not me.
This life is the life of the alter ego, the commuter, but I don’t even begin to know who he is;
Can we beat our time tomorrow, I don’t care but the commuter does – the 7.39 to London is the oh so important life of his.
Steve whyley
Find more at http://www.thenewsandme.com
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Mon, Oct 19, 2009
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