Not All Of What Follows Is True

A recurring journal of mixed veracity.

Sunday, December 28, 2003

Some of it is, though.

I took the train from Hitchin back down to King's Cross on the morning of the 27th. I hustled my baggage on to the train, weighed down with books and Christmas presents (and some books that were Christmas presents). Luckily there was space in one of those four-seat units, where I was able to put my bags on one seat and myself next to them. The woman opposite (dark hair, early thirties) was doing much the same.

She was reading a brightly-covered paperback, called something like "Tears of the Giraffe". I think it's the same imprint that did that version of Murakami's THE WIND-UP BIRD CHRONICLE with the blue-negative portrait on the cover.

I started in on my own book (PATTERN RECOGNITION by William Gibson, for those keeping score at home). After only a short while, I heard three notes of a phone ringtone, which I recognised as "Sweet Child of Mine". I smiled to myself and looked up, to find my gaze met my the girl whose phone it was. We exchanged a look of mutual rock music recognition. She smiled at me (for I was already smirking contentedly at this telephonic G'n'R rendition, as you may recall) and carried on her phone conversation. I went back to my book.

Later, as we rattled through the outskirts of London, I noticed what the woman opposite me (dark hair, early thirties) was using as a bookmark. It was an A5 piece of photo-stock paper. On it were two ultrasound photos of a baby in the womb.