The London train is delayed by half an hour.
I'm sitting on the platform; down on the tarmac, shoes off, cardigan slipped down round my shoulders. The sun is at my back, shadows at my feet of my toes and the pages of my novel blowing in the wind. The wind smells like a south easterly, not quite as familiar as the sou' westerly, up over the moors bringing the taste of the sea, but still pleasant. Blustering my hair about my face, bringing me the sound of collar doves and children playing.
Perhaps I don't mind the delay after all.
I'm sitting on the platform; down on the tarmac, shoes off, cardigan slipped down round my shoulders. The sun is at my back, shadows at my feet of my toes and the pages of my novel blowing in the wind. The wind smells like a south easterly, not quite as familiar as the sou' westerly, up over the moors bringing the taste of the sea, but still pleasant. Blustering my hair about my face, bringing me the sound of collar doves and children playing.
Perhaps I don't mind the delay after all.
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