Yesterday I travelled to visit my dying father. He won’t be leaving the hospital under his own steam. Might be one week. Might be a month. Might be three months. But it’s an inevitable wait, that’s for sure.
Waiting at Wolverhampton train station to go home. In the rain. Surrounded by drunken men crowing about Brexit and shouting about fucking Pakis going home. Waiting for a train they switched to a different platform without telling me, watching it pull out of the station without me.
Waiting for the next train. Delayed twenty minutes. Too late to get to Manchester and catch last train to Leeds.
Waiting in Manchester station Starbucks until 4 a.m. Coffee and some half-decent music but no-one wants to dance. My 16 year old son waiting for me to get home with no idea where I am, my ‘phone dead and no-one wants to lend me a charger. Fear in peoples’ eyes just because I spoke.
Comatose guy lying in a pool of his own vomit waiting for someone to give a shit.
Girls waiting for a guy to show up and give them their lift. Getting hassled by the beggars. Waiting for the coppers to come and bail them out.
Woman with the baseball cap and the shopping bags swaying on the concourse, mouthing a stream of words no-one can hear. Waiting for god knows what.
Turns out the 4 a.m. train doesn’t exist anyway. There’s just a bus to Huddersfield.