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  • The last london train back to Sevenoaks is always around midnight.
    As if the passengers are Cinderella, we have to be on the carriage before we turn into pumpkins.
    It's the same mix of people on this train;
    burnt out city men full of expensive dinners from schmoozing with clients,
    under-dressed, fake tanned women with smudged mascara, failed to have been "pulled",
    'I never liked him anyway-the knob', they wail at each other,
    polar opposite to this,
    there are the very high-brow, middle-aged couples, usually in sets of four,
    that have been to the theatre, they clutch programs and wear suede camel coats.
    You can imagine that their children are studying Literature at Oxford or Bath,
    the fathers play cricket and golf with their sons,
    the mothers and daughters wear Tiffany and Karen Millen,
    they holiday in Dubai.

    The last train carriages are littered with Burger King papers and chips cartons.
    Evening Standards covered in ketchup.
    There is always tinny, ipod music blaring out from someone's earphones.
    There is always someone that has a loud and flemmy cough.
    The journey always feels ten times longer than it actually is.
    It's never-ending, people drift through the limbo of it, we are neither here nor there,
    we are in the state of not being awake and not being asleep.
    A vague motion in time.

    Soon I know I will have to leave this carriage and step into the frosty, autumnal wind of reality as I walk home.
    As I walk back to life.
    Living in limbo seems most appealing.
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