April 18

‘Shhhhhheeeet,’ I say, like a surprised swearing snake, looking at the small blue-black screen displaying the price of the train ticket.

‘The cost, yeah?’ said the Indian ticket salesman.

‘A lot. Twenty pounds ninety. Just to go to Eastbourne.’

‘Not cheap, no, no, no,’ says the salesman shaking his head quickly from side to side.

‘Only death and air and taxes are cheap,’ I said.

‘Yes, yes. We are all slaves. Slaves at work. Slaves to money. Slaves until we die. Have a nice trip.’ Smiling, he hands me my tickets.

‘Thanks.’ I walk away and feel gladdened by out little moment of shared awareness about the harshness of life. Life is now not so harsh.