Quiet times

Friday June 24, 2005

“It doesn’t get any easier,” I said, standing with Graham on the platform at Boston station and waiting for the train to whisk him off to Somerset.

“No problem,” he said. “I won’t go, then.”

And he meant it.

“That’d be silly.”

“S’pose so.”

“And it’s only for a week.”

“S’pose so.”

“Dolly and I will manage fine while you’re away. Just so long as we don’t have to cut the grass.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah. We’ve done it before.”

The level-crossing gates along the line closed against road traffic, the little diesel train came into sight, slid to a stop, and the moment had arrived.

“Right,” I said. “This is it. Take care, now.”

“You too.”

So, with a quick peck of a kiss, he swung his bag into the train, the door closed, and off he went for a week’s relief barman duty.

Things are going to be quiet around here for the next seven days or so.

 

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