It was no good; things were going from bad to worse today. Jimmy couldn’t even make it to the end of Everything in its Right Place this time before realising that his focus was in anything but its rightful place. Too many ghosts circling, and a strange charge in the air that he couldn’t recall ever before experiencing. It was ominous, that was what it was.

He scanned the line-up on the opposite bench. The train was pulling out of a station, but he couldn’t tell which one. Things were changing. Rufus’ less fragrant neighbour, the one who had allowed, maybe even invited, somebody to indelibly scrawl their fantasies all over his neck and arms, was gone. He had gone somewhere that was not this carriage: Jimmy felt a tiny shiver as he realised he knew no more than that. What an underground world this was, concertinaed into a two-dimensional canvas. Step outside those doors and you step beyond the conscious grasp of they who stay within.

Inside the car, Jimmy’s old school pal was, gradually, welcoming a new companion. Middle-aged – 40s, maybe, or early 50s. She dressed stylishly in a printed shift that finished above her knee and showed off her legs. Her face was lived-in, but in a good way. The tiny lines softened her features and gave her eyes and mouth an open look you just knew would be interested in whatever you had to say. Two bags, one too large to be practical, one much smaller, hung off her right arm, and were the cause of her slight consternation as she conspicuously took her place. Her left hand clutched a paperback. Jimmy couldn’t make out what it was, although he caught the word “Bronte” printed on the spine, between her delicate fingers. The seraphic smile endowed upon Rufus as she finally settled was totally wasted.

Directly opposite Jimmy sat Rufus’ other neighbour; the sort of sort who would in a previous, although long gone, part of his life have caused him much lack of focus simply by being there. Even to describe her as out of Jimmy’s league would have been inappropriate. She was in a league, alright, but he wasn’t. He preferred to think of that side of things as the ultimate cup competition – anyone can be drawn with anyone; a bumpy and sloping pitch, a whistling wind and hardened locals screaming from inches away can level things out nicely to the most basic equation of one ball, 44 feet and two goals. But that’s him: sentimental and romantic.

She didn’t enter the cup. Didn’t see the point. She was in a league. Even though her eyes didn’t match and her heel was scuffed. Fucking league? Do me a favour.