There’s nothing romantic about getting the 5:56 train from Newcastle Central Station to King’s Cross. The station is cold, a still cold like you feel in a cave or a cathedral of stone, iron and glass. The station is a thing of beauty with its impressive stone portico and its curving arched platforms but at this time of the morning nobody notices. At this time of the morning it is empty and lifeless and very cold.
The platforms are empty. There is no one waiting for a train to come in, no one waiting to wave off a loved one and no one staring at the departures board waiting for their train time to be announced. But there are a few passengers about. They are there, either huddled around the coffee vendors getting their early morning fix or sitting patiently on the train waiting for departure. The occasional member of the station staff goes by accompanied by the rattle of a luggage trolley or the hum of a half recognisable tune. They’ve been up for some time and are well into their working day.
All the seats are reserved in coach D but there is only a handful of travellers. With less than five minutes to go to departure the electric door swishes open and another passenger joins us, getting himself ready to sit down, his papers on the desk, his luggage put on the overhead rack and his overcoat undone, folded and placed on top of his bag.
The next London bound train rolls in beside us on platform 2 with half an hour to wait. The rails squeal as the carriage wheels fight against the curve and the noise cuts through the cold air. The station guards make their way along the carriages of our train, slamming the doors shut and we are ready to go.
A whistle, a shout and the train shudders and starts to edge forward. The noise of the electric motors grows in volume and we realise that it has been there all the while, like a distant choir in the background. We pull out on time and the carriages roll from side to side as we make our way out of the station and over the bridge high above the Tyne. The tide is out and the brown waters of the river have peeled back from the banks revealing shiny mud flats, indistinguishable in colour from the flow but smooth and bowed.
The tannoy breaks the silence, annoyingly loud but raising us from our lethargy. There is no refreshment trolley available. Apologies are given but no explanation is forthcoming. The passengers are settling down now, some with their laptops open, especially if they are lucky enough to have a table, some reading the newspaper but others are curled up in foetal positions trying to resume the sleep that they have been dragged out of.
We slip through the suburbs of Gateshead, pick up speed and head southwards on the long journey to London.
Thoughts from a Guerrilla Worker 