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East Anglia

Matthew Bagdanovich
Coauthor of “lHe3: The Novel>”, Kindle ebook
Summer 2000
Millenium Summer

    The short description of the English summer at the turn of the 21st century is that here in East Anglia, there has been none. I sit onboard the 9:16 from Audley End, which is the Cambridge mainline service, bound for the London Liverpool Street Station in the last week of July and am grateful the train has the heat on. The lying weatherman on BBC said it would get to at least 25 today in the Southeast of England, right now it is about 6, hence the title lying weatherman.
    Awakening was to an overcast grey dawn. My sons came into my wife’s and my bedroom at about 5:45 A.M. as they do most mornings. There is a wonderful sensation of paternal love in my breast as they first crawl up onto the pillows and lay their heads down and then gently place their hand on my face and ask if I slept well. Thirty minutes later, with sleep receding no matter how hard I try, I hear Michael (younger by five minutes than his twin brother Robert) talking in the tone of voice slightly above a whisper that only a two and a half year old can manage.
    “Train...Choo.choooooo Choo chooooooo... Steam engine......Pwsshh Odder train...Choo choooo... Choo chooooo KWHAASH!!!”
    Instinctively I cover my face as the two doomed trains collide on the bed rail inches frommy nose. It has been my experience that the laws of physics for two year olds require that any detached piece of debris from a train crash invariably land on my right eye, so I roll over covering my right eye with both hands to a background of repeated crash noises as Michael attempts to achieve the exact effect he was looking for.
    I uncover my right eye and am nose to nose with Robert who is waiting to be noticed. I smile. He smiles. I smile. He smiles and says, “Poopy.” I instantly agree.
    It is not possible for me to say enough about my wonderful wife. As I roll out of bed, propelled and pursued by the aromatic alarm clock asking for a hug, she dutifully gets up and starts her routine of changing nappies and preventing serious injury as our two nuclear reactors start their full and energetic day.
    Talk to Argentineans about deceitful Bolivians. Talk to Mexicans about deceitful Mexicans. Talk to Peruvians, Venezolanos, Guatamaltecos and one poor lost expatriated Brit. Good joke. Time for lunch.
    I step into the glass roofed Leadenhall Market to the corner store that sells the freshly baked chicken and leek pies and an out-of-this world cherry strudel, back to the office.
    The afternoon passes trying to explain the Mexican legal system to an Underwriter who drank four pints of Old Speckled Hen during lunch hour. Frankly, Old Speckled Hen has a bad tendency to induce unpleasant gas, we all agree.
    I see the clock on my laptop saying that if I leave just this minute, I should be able to make the 8-minute walk to the station and have one minute extra to board the 6:19 to Cambridge. I am homeward bound. My heart lifts, my step quickens. With luck, my children will still be awake when I get home.
    Piling onto the train, no seat for the first 25 minutes until we pass enough stations to let half the passengers off. Then, one by one, all those who have been standing move around, find a seat. I set next to a blind man who I eventually learn is Mark, a copywriter for BBC. I tell him the weatherman is a liar. Mark agrees.
    I turn into our gravel driveway and pull up. Stepping out I hear through the door a gleeful screech of “Daddy’s home.” I am closely questioned, yet again, if I am home from the office? I reply, “Yes.” Have I come home on the train? I reply, “Yes.” Have I had a good day? “Yes.” Then I am given a big hug from both and a kiss from my wife, and I am officially home.
    At this point I am informed that one son is Thomas the Tank Engine and the other is Percy, Thomas’ green friend. He is painted green, you know, quite unlike Thomas’ blue paint. I take note and address them accordingly.
    I am home with my family and life is good.

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