The Didcot Goodbye

I'm back in Oxford after a short trip to Sidmouth. On the way home, I witnessed an interesting scene.

The train had stopped at Didcot Parkway.

Didcot is mainly known for the dystopian chimneys of its massive power station. And Didcot railway museum.

I think they've tried to compensate for the oppressive industrialism of the chimneys with a reminder of the good old days, when industrialism was noble and charming, and everything worked through steam and the elastic energy of a thousand stiff-upper-lips, just waiting to be released for Queen and Country.

It doesn't work, though. Those chimneys are still the only things people associate with Didcot. The ruddy Victorian smile of the steam-merchant has been replaced by Blinky, the three-eyed mutated fish from The Simpsons. Didcot is a place of pollution and perversion. At least that's what it says on the signs.

I'm sure there's other stuff in Didcot. Probably.

Anyway, the train was sitting at the station, and a couple were on the platform. They were middle-aged, and very affectionate. It was clear that they were saying goodbye. After a while, the woman boarded the train and came into my carriage, taking a seat by the window. The man was still on the platform, and they were saying their last goodbyes via mime, blown kisses, and waves, through the thick train glass.

I don't know where she was going, or for how long. (Actually I think Oxford was the last stop, so she probably got off there). But it was quite a big goodbye. She lifted her glasses and wiped tears from her eyes. I wonder if she was going away for a long time. Perhaps she was going to pursue a career in the Frozen North. Perhaps she was going on an archaeological dig to Yemen or Peru, and wouldn't be back for months.

Perhaps she had escaped from prison, and was spending a final weekend with him before turning herself in to the authorities. She might have whacked a judge.

Whatever the reason for the farewell, it was quite emotional. (I was listening to sad music at the time, which may have helped in that regard).

So, they waved goodbye, and the train whisked her out of his life, away from the warmth and familiarity of their love, into something cold and alien. A fitting farewell for the purest of loves...

Except that didn't really happen.

They said their tearful goodbyes through the glass. But the train didn't go anywhere. I don't know if it was delayed or just early, but it sat on the platform for about fifteen minutes.

At first, they laughed about it, they continued their kiss-blowing, and swapped understanding smiles. But the train still didn't move. And they didn't really know what to do.

They'd said goodbye, - they were ready to move on. But as time passed, it all became a bit awkward. Suddenly, the high emotion had been exposed, and they were left nakedly, purposelessly staring into each others eyes.

He could have walked away, I suppose. But it would have seemed callous. I'm sure they were waiting for that final, classic goodbye: her waving a handkerchief out of the window; him racing alongside the train, smoke billowing (from the train), until it accelerated out of view.

But the train wasn't going anywhere. So he had to stand around with his hands in his pockets, periodically rolling his eyes. She had to check her phone for texts. It was awkward.

I had to look away. I probably shouldn't have been engaging in such voyeuristic romanticism in the first place, but there wasn't much else to look at (except for two stereotypical Reading Festival refugees, reading a book called The Vegetarian Visitor).

Eventually, the train left the station. Her eyes were still teary, and the goodbye was still heart-felt, if a little muted. Their thunder had been stolen.

It was a classic example of real life failing to meet the perfection of an apropos Hollywood moment.

We have to process events by creating stories. We can only understand the world through the construct of various narratives. We create time and chains of precedent, when everything is really just a jumbled collection of moments.

But these moments are so complicated, and so numerous, that our narratives are inevitably quite sloppy and unsatisfying. It's impossible to create the neat resolutions that we see in fiction. So we're always clamouring to find something that makes sense. You want a moment that would form an emotional climax, or a joyful coincidence. You try to create them, but they end up being forced. And fate is always there to rob you of your moment with its randomness. You can prepare a goodbye for ages, but you'll be thwarted by a train driver who's forgotten his keys.

Occasionally those movie moments do happen. Maybe the rain will begin at an emotional time. Or an angry outburst will be punctuated by a clap of thunder. But it doesn't happen often. Waiting around for a pathetic fallacy usually ends up being just plain pathetic.

I can remember a particular example of a movie-style moment. It was the last game ever at The Dell, and Saints were drawing with Arsenal. Only for Matt Le Tissier - Southampton legend - to come on and score a typical masterpiece and win the match.

I had tears in my eyes after that. Not just because of the emotion of it, but also because of the sheer Roy of the Rovers-style fictionality of the whole thing. It was a real life fairytale. For once, life had imitated life, and done it properly.

But it was all the better for being real. There's a constant battle between life and art - a contest to see which is the most beautiful. Art is always taking life and twisting it, smoothing it, honing it, and life is always pulling something huge and breathtaking out of the bag, to send the artist back to the drawing board. Or... you know... sculptor's... hut.

So, the couple on the station platform had come close to moulding their life into art. Probably because emotional events need some kind of filter. Without the Hollywood sheen, a goodbye is all too real and too permanent, I suppose.