Personal

Going home

I took the train into Ipswich today to complete my Christmas shopping. (Yes, really: it's done, five whole days early!). The train was heaving, excitement everywhere. Behind me the guard was arguing playfully with slick-haired teenagers about tickets; stacked on the seats in front of me was evidence that whoever Milly is, she won't be disappointed come Thursday.

I'm suddenly reminded how much I enjoy public transport at this time of year. I'm reminded of another Christmas Eve story.

After I left college I lived with Mum and Dad for three years, commuting to work in London. Although our daily seats weren't reserved, they may as well have been. Each day, the same faces and the same rituals in each carriage, on each platform, at every station. In my carriage, there was the couple who shared The Guardian on the journey. She'd depart with a kiss at East Croydon, riding at the wrong end of the train for her stop so that her husband would be at the right end for Victoria. Or the businessman who clutched his brown leather briefcase all the way as if it were a comfort blanket. And the girl with the rose tattoo on her ankle who always wore a severe frown.

But on Christmas Eve, everyone took on a different sheen. You can pretend you don't like Christmas, but sooner or later the joy seeps out. I see it in your eyes.

Somehow we all decided to take the same train home an hour earlier than usual. At Victoria the briefcase man stumbled through the door clutching bags bulging with goodies from Hamleys. All the way to East Croydon, the Guardian guy patted his overcoat pocket, grinning to himself as if he'd just made a Hatton Garden salesman very happy.

And although the usual library silence was maintained, for that one journey the noise of our collective silent communication was deafening; it was Christmas, and we were going home. Even the rose tattooed girl couldn't help but smile.