A Temporary Ticket

A Temporary Ticket

The cacophony of noise seemed to engulf me, preventing me from hearing my own thoughts as I traversed between the bright masses of colour which bellowed steam and busy people.  The clicking of high heels, thumping of brown boots and shuffling of speedy students stepping off trains coupled with the foul odour of sweat and trash made for an excruciatingly uncomfortable place but as I made my way off the busy platform and past the little sweet shops, I could not help but feel a small spark of joy. This did not stem from the sweet wrapper-coated delights themselves but old memories of my boyhood.

As I stood in the heart of the old Newport Station and clutched a battered, scarlet briefcase in one hand, I felt my top hat shift into a tweed flat-cap, my suit transform into a navy blue uniform and my body shrink by about three feet. I felt as though I was a young boy again, standing restlessly in the station and waiting for my grandmother. Despite throngs of people entering and departing the busy station, I would immediately spot her signature emerald-green hat.

“Charlie!” She would exclaim as she peered at me through her dainty glasses and stray silver hairs. “How was your term? Have you been a good student or lazying around with your little group of rascals?” She would tease as she pulled my cap off and ruffled my hair.

She would then dig into her cosy coat which brightened up the station like clouds lit pink by the sinking sun and fish around in the pockets for a little bag of sweets which she would gently place in my hands, a symbol of her love.

Suddenly the scorching sun beamed through the high windows and crashed onto me, casting my lonely shadow on the floor. There I was, a tall, 40-year-old man, smiling at a distant memory.

I pulled myself together and walked past couples, friends and families, briskly up the stairs and out of the station.