Pastel-yellow sunshine bathes the station platform this morning. Over-cautious commuters dressed for air temperatures colder than today’s mild 7C stand in silence, some reading newspapers that as well have been yesterday’s edition.
On the left of me stands a twenty-something swiping through his Twitter feed, slowing down the scroll with his thumb from time to time. On my right, a man with a walking reads the opinion page in the Daily Mail: “BBC should face public inquiry over Savile”.
It’s 8.02am. The day is now officially underway.
Mine has already risked a false start a few hours ago when I was in bed. Cocooned in a fluffy duvet, blackout curtains shutting out the reality of the day, a voice whispered in my ear, “Obama got back in.”
Elections are exciting affairs. Regardless of your vested interest, the vote count is an adult’s present-day excuse to stay-up late. And for those of us who go to bed just as the live coverage got started, it’s a reminder of when we were kids and we were sent to bed early, listening to our parents and their friends party below us. Grown-up parties always sounded more fun through the bedroom floor.