On platform 5 of the railway station in Slough (pronounced slau), stands a poignant reminder of all that makes England great. Slough itself, however, is the opposite. A commuter town, over spill town, new town; call it what you will but Slough itself for me epitomizes all that makes England grey. OK, I'll be honest, I've only ever been to the train station and from there walked the few hundred yards to its shopping centre but there is an awful familiarity, a soulless modernity borne out of new roads, roundabouts, bus lanes, taxi ranks and a propensity for concrete which borders on compulsive. It hasn't evolved it has been created, a Frankenstein's monster of cities. Actually it's not so new, just the bit around the station but surely I'm allowed some poetic license?
Station Jim and me |
I digress, back to my story. As I'm waiting for my train to whisk me back to the smoke (if you've ever traveled on British trains you should also know whisk is a flagrant abuse of poetic license too), I spy a strange inhabitant of platform 5; Station Jim. Earlier I alluded to Station Jim's being an icon of what makes England great; our intimate relationship with man’s best friend. On those rare hot summer's days in England at the country pub the RSPCA will be the first on the scene to contact the owners of the Ford Fiesta with Fido shut up in the back. They'll even ask the kids shut in the car next door how long the dog has been there. So, Station Jim, as the story goes, was a mere pup when the station master found him abandoned and shivering. A furry ball no bigger than the palm of your hand. With diligent care and attention Jim was nursed back to life. Jim's first trick was to learn to use the foot bridges between platforms so he never crossed directly over the rails.... blah blah blah. To be honest this is where I lost interest in the station Jim story but apparently he was a feature of the station for some years in the days of yore and used to collect for the local orphanage until he was struck down by an acute case of taxidermy - awwwww.
I had traveled that day from London for an interview in Slough. An hour and a half journey of train, tube and walking from one station to another to get me from Lewisham, in the south west of London to Paddington, in the West and then just 15 minutes on the train to Slough. Not a journey I would relish every day of the week. The London Underground for all its charm gets old pretty quickly. Its relentless tide of humanity ebbs and flows through its tunnels helped along by the tepid winds of the trains as they push through its arteries. Note to self: In London find, job first, accommodation second.
Well, I know you are all dieing to know what it's like being back in good old DeePreston. Not too much has changed although there are glimmers of recognition now when I walk into Cafe Moka ( they have a website now ) but apart form that all systems normal. One thing has struck me this time about Preston is the money that's here. For our American readers Preston is to England as say, Boise, Idaho is to America. Not everyone has heard of it and no-one really goes there. Preston is not Liverpool or Manchester and yet the car park just around the corner from Cafe Moka on an average day boasts two Range Rover sports, a Mercedes 500 SL AMG and a Porche Boxter. Who, in Preston, is driving these cars and where are they getting the money? Forgive me Boise residents but I imagine your car parks are filled with Dodge Ram extended cab built Ford tough monstrosities with perhaps the odd late model Corvette thrown in for good measure. Also, our readers in the States should remember that everything in the UK is roughly twice the price here, especially its cars and especially those cars made here or near here. Go figure.
I am still gainfully unemployed something which is fun when you live in San Francisco but not fun whilst living in Preston.... with your parents. I've run out of things to do. I want to work. |
