Dear Points of View,
It was with dismay that I watched “Top of the Pops” this Thursday last.
As much as Mr Dury and his Blockheads assert, being the ticket man at Fulham Railway Station, is not preferable to a life of musical debauchery on the road.
I feel qualified to comment upon this juxtaposition as, for thirty years, I was responsible for issuing travel documentation from that very point of embarkation. Trust me, the kiosk is no place for the faint of heart, particularly on those Saturdays when Chelsea play at home.
But they say each ticket man has a story and this is mine.
It was an early spring day, perhaps late March, and the sun was beaming as I clocked in to begin my shift. Everything was as it should be. I stowed my flask and sandwiches in their usual position, up against the lost-property. The false leg was still there, poking out from the box in its usual accusatory manner. I danced around the toes, in what had become a quotidian affair, settled into my seat and prepared to refurl the canvas screen that obscured my presence from the swirling public.
With just two minutes until the next significant departure, I pulled on the cord and, like a lapping tongue, my hide flapped noisily back onto the reel. My day had begun.
I served the buzzing into silence and prepared to begin battle with the crossword – easy clues – I’m a simple man, but it was then that I saw her.
From across the concourse, she stared at me, eyes like arrows. My throat became dry. She was wearing a bright dandelion macintosh and her long ebony hair cascaded over the shoulders. With her head slightly dipped, she glared out from beneath a sharp fringe, never breaking her urgent gaze.
I was but a young ticketeer yet, despite my inexperience, I knew I had to go across and help her.
I climbed down from my chair and crossed to the office door. I opened it, popping my head through like a nervous gazelle – she saw me, yet didn’t move.
“Are you alright?” I called, my voice creaking from the craw.
Still, she did not move. Her only acknowledgement of my presence was to resume locking of her eyes onto mine. I began to walk. Slowly. I did not want to startle this vision.
I got to within, perhaps six-feet. Her face was flawless, like a doll, but I could see it was lined in the wake of continuing tears.
“Are you okay?” I said tenderly.
At that moment of 0827 arrived, and I turned to see the crowds filing off. When I wheeled back, I was staring at an empty wall. Struck dumb, I returned to my position.
I completed the day in a haze but had recovered some equilibrium when I returned the following day. I placed my sandwiches, then saw the dandelion macintosh sitting atop of the lost property box.
No-one ever collected it.