🙌🏼 We're All Going Through... Something

Things I know to be true: Truth #1

👋🏻 Hello, I’m Anna. An adventurer, author of six books and Restless Mumma to three small humans. Each week I write about adventure, travel, daily chaos and the inner workings of my noggin’ 🧠⚡️ 🗺️

✌🏻You can check out past posts at the Restless Mumma homepage here.

Hello Restless Wonders,

There is a cosmic shift going on this week in the west of Britain. The sky is less grey. We have had two days (two, I tell you!) of warmth and sunshine and I have flung the doors open to feel that glorious warmth on my face.

I’d like to pretend my mood is not tied to the weather, but dang it is.

This week, I’m sharing the first in a new series of posts - called ‘Ten Things I know to be True’.

These are ten beliefs which have an impact on my approach to life, so I wanted to share them with you. As well as a short, personal story to go along with each.

I’ll drop the truths in as the months go by, whenever the inspiration strikes.

Enjoy the first tale and catch you next week,

Anna xx

We’re All Going Through… Something

‘Tickets please’ came a voice from down the aisle.

It was 8pm, and I was on a train back from London to Gloucester. I was sitting at a four person table, enjoying the view from the window as the train cut through countryside.

The late summer sun hung low in the sky, its rays streaming through the window and pooling on the table in front of me. Opposite me was another woman and across the narrow aisle sat a man on his own.

The guard moved into view — she was in her mid forties, wearing a pale green shirt with black trousers and her brown hair was pulled back into a neat, tight bun. As she reached our table, she rested her hand on top of the seat in front of me, and I caught a shock of bright red nails.

I showed the guard my phone. The woman opposite did the same. I went back to looking out of the window.

‘I’m getting off at the next stop,’ I heard the man say.

‘That’s fine, can I see your ticket please?’ said the guard.

‘I don’t have one.’ He glanced at her briefly and then looked out of the window.

‘Where did you get on?’ She asked, her voice carrying a practiced patience.

‘London,’ said the man.

‘Okay, that’s fifty pounds and fifty pence then.’ The guard reached for the ticket machine, which was resting on her hip.

‘I don’t have any money on me,’ he said.

I eyed the man more closely.

He had grey curls that were cut close to his head and was wearing jeans and a navy blue jumper with a shirt collar poking out the top. On the table in front of him was a small, sleek, grey laptop. He had bags beneath his blue eyes and he seemed tired. Not just end-of-the-day tired, but life-tired.

He looked more like a businessperson than a fare dodger, but then again, what did fare-dodgers look like?

‘Sir, come on.’ The guard cocked her head to one side as if to say I’m not in the mood for this. It’s been a long day. Just pay the fare and let me get on with my job. In that tilt of her head was the weariness of a woman who had learned to hold her ground without raising her voice.

‘I’m getting off at the next stop,’ he repeated.

‘I understand that, but you’ve travelled from London without a ticket. You need to pay.’

‘And I’ve told you. I don’t have any money. I left my wallet at work,’ he said, nonchalantly.

I studied his body language. There was no remorse, no discomfort, no imploring for her to forgive him and take pity. He was dismissive. And if anything, he seemed angry at her. As if she was bothering him.

I was trying to do the good British thing, which is to stay out of it. And to ignore awkward situations at all costs. But the conversation was transforming the energy in carriage B to something that was toxic. And now I breathed that toxicity in too.

‘Oh, come on, just pay the fare,’ the woman opposite me pitched in. She’d been looking at her phone, presumably in an attempt to stay out of it too, but something about the situation had irritated her, and now she added her voice to the mix.

‘I don’t have any money to pay it,’ he said, raising his voice.

The guard let out an audible sigh and raised her voice, ever so slightly, in return.

‘Look, Sir. I’m being very reasonable here. I’m only asking you to pay the fare. What I should do is charge you a penalty. Or we can just call the police at the next station? We’ll stop the train and wait for them to arrive.’

I gazed at the woman in admiration. She was standing her ground. Her uniform now her armour. I had my suspicions that this wasn’t the first difficult situation she’d been in with a fare-dodger.

‘What and you’re going to stop me from getting off the train, are you?’ He scoffed, his words sharp. Ouch. That was ugly, I thought. And for the first time, I wondered if things might turn violent. Would he force his way past her and off the train? Would any of us stop him if he did?

As a woman, I felt a kinship with the guard. She was behaving like a badass. He was behaving like a knob.

I sat for a few minutes longer, watching as the guard and the man went back and forth — their words circling like fighters in a ring.

Perhaps he really didn’t have the money to pay? I thought. And in that case, this entire scene would be embarrassing. And it couldn’t feel nice that everyone was demanding he pay, and that he was being threatened with calling the police if he really didn’t have the money and just wanted to get home.

Perhaps his only crime was not being able to put his hands up and admit he was in the wrong?

If he did have the money and was trying to avoid paying, then there was surely some strange reason behind that, too. Or maybe he’d just got hung up on his lie and couldn’t see a way out. Either way, he was clearly having a shit day.

There was now a long silence in carriage B.

We were in a standoff.

The man tapped his leg anxiously and directed his gaze at the floor, as if he was hoping everyone and everything would just go away. The guard was staring at him. Her patience stretched thin but still holding.

‘Sir?’ she said after a while.

He didn’t answer.

This was getting uncomfortable. The man’s behaviour was increasingly irrational. The woman opposite was visibly agitated, and further down the carriage, people had stood up to get a better view of the commotion.

It all felt very unpleasant. I wanted it to end.

I was tired after a long day too and the idea of having to wait at the next station for the police to arrive wasn’t something I wanted to entertain.

I considered wading in and adding to the requests to pay for the ticket, but I had a feeling that would only make him more defensive. I had to try something else.

‘Do you really not have the money?’ I asked from across the aisle, my voice soft.

‘No,’ said the man gruffly.

‘Okay, in that case, I’ll pay for your ticket. Can I do that?’ I looked up at the guard.

‘Yes, you can. It’s fifty pounds, fifty.’

‘Okay, no worries.’ I slid my card out from the back of my phone and held it out for the guard to take. The man shifted in his seat. He seemed uneasy.

The guard reached for my card.

‘Okay, okay — fine. Here. Take this.’ He pulled a debit card from his back pocket and thrust it, angrily, at the guard.

He didn’t look at me.

Shame hung in the air.

There was a minute of silence while the transaction went through. The scratching staccato of the ticket being printed was agonising. I smiled an awkward smile at the woman opposite. She shrugged and smiled back. The guard handed the man back his card and a ticket.

‘Thank you, sir,’ she said, still calm, still composed. She looked up and continued her journey down the aisle. ‘Tickets please…’

The man sat still for several minutes after the guard had left, before beginning to gather up his things; a laptop, a bag, a coat. As the train slowed on the approach to the next station, he stood up into the aisle, so that he was now next to my seat.

‘Listen, I… Sorry about that. I lost my job today.’ He said, his voice low and soft. I looked up. His shoulders, where they had been square and strong a few minutes earlier, were now slumped.

When he raised his eyes to meet mine. I said nothing. I just nodded.

‘I just wanted to get home.’ A pause. ‘Thank you. I shouldn’t have... I’m sorry.’

He got off the train, and I watched him move towards the exit, shoulders still slumped. A silhouette against the station lights.

👆🏻❤️ P.s Tapping the heart button at the top or bottom means that more people will see this post. It also automatically tops up my writing juju for the following week. Magic eh? ✨