Blogue d'un québécois expatrié en Angleterre. Comme toute forme d'autobiographie est constituée d'une large part de fiction, j'ai décidé de nommer le blogue Vraie Fiction.
Friday, 27 January 2012
Waiting at the train station
I was waiting by the train station tonight, on my way home. It was cold, not freezing but still cold, it had rained a lot by the end of the afternoon so it felt quite wet. Like yesterday, I enjoyed this quiet moment after a hard day. I didn't see the cats, sadly. If it hadn't been so cold, I would have felt like in a spaghetti western (this one). It is not even far fetched: I saw a few days ago a woman wearing cowboy hat and coat, she looked like Clint Eastwood (or Clint Eastwood's female wannabe). She was eccentric, but I thought the clothes were appropriate for the journey. I associate train travels with adventure and mystery, and the small, middle of nowhere train station I was in felt very much like a great setting for the beginning of such story. This reminded me why the train is maybe my favourite mode of transport.