|Death On The Line|
Behind the building in which we live, beyond a crumbling wall, there's a railway line linking south-east London to Kent. It's the line which brings thousands of commuters to London every weekday, by the trainload, and once the working day is over, it's the same line which delivers those commuters safely back home. It's the line onto which a few people have thrown themselves, to end their miserable lives, and it's the line which Tony likes to look at every now and then, so that he can watch the trains go by, and make rude gestures to the passengers in the overcrowded carriages, thinking to himself that he's glad that it's not him heading to work, for another boring day at the office.
Our Portuguese neighbour once complained to our landlord about the fact that she was unable to hang anything expensive on her walls, because every time a train goes by, our building seems to vibrate. The landlord replied that trains, like acts of God, are out of his control, and if she is unhappy about being unable to hang watercolours on her walls, perhaps she should look elsewhere to live. She soon got the point, and now realises that although life in a big city is all about noise, pollution, and being surrounded by lots of people, it's also about being able to get from A to B, very easily, thanks to the wonders of public transport.