Yesterday I worked at the one railway station that I really don’t like. No one really likes going there, punters and staff alike. It’s old, dark, dingy, in a slightly dodgy part of town and the bicycle rack is used as a public lavatory. And it’s by far and away the most popular choice of stations along my stretch of line for people seeking to end it all.
I’ve been quite lucky with my encounters with persons of this nature. The ones I’ve met don’t really want to kill themselves. They make themselves, and their ‘intent’ known. They need just need some help, not a meeting with the front of a train. The ones that are really determined to end it all? All too often they only make themselves known through the screams of the witnesses on the platform.
I’ve also been fortunate that the ones I’ve encountered have all been female and much smaller than myself. There’s an obvious advantage to this. Once I’m aware of their intent and have intercepted them trying to make their way to their makers, then the day is saved.
Yesterday’s incident was only awkward because I found myself without a phone, at a quiet time of day, stuck on a bridge. I couldn’t leave her to get my phone. I couldn’t get help without it. Luckily, she had a phone and I borrowed that.
She apologized for being such a bother. I offered to get her a cup of tea. We both agreed that Facebook and Twitter can be thoroughly toxic and should be avoided where possible. The police arrived and took her where she needed to go. It was a very British crisis.
Today’s very British crisis is a little less dramatic. A gentleman, rather under the influence, left his bag on a train last night. Not an entirely unusual event. But it’s less usual for the bad to contain a dog.
The Mexile 