writing exercise

I had tried all I could to kick start the writing drive, including buying an extortionately expensive little pad and pen at the railway station book stall. I worked on the principal that surely a train journey ought to stimulate the brain cells. Where did the genie go and what did I have to rub to make it re-appear?

For a start, this lousy rail service needs a kick in the pants. National Rail Enquiries give out the information, it's even printed in their guide but come day and time? No train and no one knows anything about it except National Rail Enquiries and us!

I check my mobile phone and wonder who Nicola is and which of my particular financial vultures she represents? I deleted her message without really listening to prevent the bolt of lead re-entering my stomach and dragging me back down.
At least, from the carriage window, there's a different view, looking over and down. The landscape has a different shape and interpretation from the perspective of other peoples' backyards.

I have upset the refreshment attendant by bringing my own food and drink. I'll put him out of a job - but prices shouldn't be so inflated I tell him. He's in a sulk.
The ticket inspector looked at my ticket three times. Do I look suspicious or does he not believe his own punch?

I make a crackly call to my destination and at least my grandsons seem glad to hear my voice and anticipate all the opportunities for inveigling sweets, magazines, junk that my visit offers.

The refreshment guy has a rhythm all his own. He drags the trolley so far down the aisle and, as the rattles of bottles deafens, he says "Any drinks?" with so much sibilance it becomes a hiss, a release of gas. His hips swivel in step with the wobbly wheels.

This time of year the sun is low, the shadows deep and in the fields the past peeps, teasing us with hints and possibilities.
The sun flickers through hazels and hedges. Will it trigger fits in those susceptible to strobeing?
It is a gloria in a mackerel sky.