Loaded with bags, you believe Alicia and claim to be superwoman. So you march off that train, luggage weighing a tonne gripped tightly in independent hands and you haul out, clomping down the street before you notice one shoulder-blade isn’t burning in agony. Superhuman strength or a missing bag? At that point the facade shifts drastically as you remember what was stowed away in the bag foolishly placed in the overhead locker as you daydreamed the journey away. Running like a there legged goat the asthma genie starts to pinch your lungs and the prayers you are trying to form are being merged with blubbering air tears – no, no this is not the way to start the new term. *Breathe*. The station appears to be useless. The phone line you call in desperation is out of service. All the jewellery, the shoes, the presents, gone? No, not you, it’s always you.
Suddenly a train officer dashes gallantly out of the station searching for you. Someone handed in a bag. What did yours look like? Green you wail. Lonsdale? Yes you cry hopefully. It has my name on it. So you haul ass back into the station through the barriers, barely daring to hope. But yes, it’s yours. How it came to be you don’t know. But it’s there. A miracle. An answer to sudden prayer. A sweet stranger who actually cared.
Happy New Year, especially to the commuter who retrieved my bag. A lot of love.