I sit on the cold old blue bench--marked by spots of grey where the paint has worn over time--and can feel the metal through my trousers on the back of my thighs. Across from me is the door of the ticket office swinging open with each person as they walk through, only to slam shut again a few seconds after. And I remember when Charlie came to pick me up from here that night we went out near Avenue Road--and it was his birthday--I think he was eighteen--though it seems so long ago I can hardly recall now. I realise that I haven't been happy in a long time--and my concentration is too troubled, I'm too easily distracted and could never read a book fast enough. Why is all this going through my mind now. Thoughts like--I'm never going to write a book like Ulysses, I don't have enough capacity--I remember when I ran into Matt (first time I'd seen him in years) at this station a month ago, and I was sad and I told him about Alice and he said--It's just a shame when you find a nice one--and I thought, that's it, that's what I had found. Nevermind all that now. The sun is slowly setting, so cold now as it disappears behind the roof of the stationhouse, brick and orange--blue doors. When it gets cold, it feels like it's always been cold, like we are ignorant of the sun's warmth. Mostly, wintertime reminds me of my childhood--when I lived on the hill--Fairview--number twelve our house--next door, Eileen gave me sweets at Christmas--had a heart attack once I recall--they had a swing in their garden.

I am really scared by the world. And it still makes me want to cry inside when I don't understand Spanish.