The closed station

Wandering past our local London Overground stop early one Sunday morning, after a foraging trip to gather newspapers and good coffee.

A young woman walks into the station, to find the barriers taped up and a sign announcing it’s closure due to (all-too-frequent) weekend engineering work. “Oh no!” she exclaims, aloud.

Because she had been late for her previous Sunday morning appointment with her disciplinarian, two weeks ago.

Because, despite her relatively good performance on all the things with which he helped, he had slippered her hard for her tardiness. “It is not the rail company’s fault,” was the message he’d driven home. “It is entirely yours, for not taking the trouble and care to check.”

Because today she was already going to be in trouble. A drunken late night, causing her to sleep in and miss two lectures, had provoked his disapproval – as had the fact she’d started her most recent essay so very late. (“Is that really the best way to secure the grade your ability merits?”)

Because she was disappointed in herself.

Because she hated to disappoint him. And that was even worse than the fear of how much the much-deserved punishment would hurt.