Sipping heavily sweetened coffee from a cardboard cup; I watch three grey rabbits as they hop around looking desperately for a patch of unpolluted grass amongst the lawn of weeds and thistles. They search in the dirty shadows; amongst the fag butts and ice lolly sticks, underneath endless rows of empty wooden picnic benches, and are eventually joined by a pair of Pied Wagtails that flit up and down, in a restless dance of feathered monochrome.
In the middle distance, I see glimpses of colourful motion through winter bare trees, as cars and lorries fly past, on route to somewhere / anywhere. My eye lids; that had felt heavy with lead on the motorway - that enticed me to sleep for a moment, to rest for just a few fatal seconds - now refuse to shut. The ugly squeal of rubber on tarmac - or pigs being slaughtered - as cars pull into slightly too tight parking spaces, doesn’t help the ambitious nap’ per.
A floating island, next to infinite movement that never ceases. Winchester; Clacket Lane and Fleet. South Mimms and London Gateway. A temporary, off the tachograph home for masturbating truckers, and somewhere for the family Red Setter to p**s after miles spent in the back of a people carrier. Where businessmen vainly hope for better deals over the phone, mouthing words I cannot hear from inside their BMWs. Realm of the adulterer, dogger, and serial killer. An in-between world of nearly running away: Neither here nor there. A living, breathing thing; a so called oasis, in the sick joke of modern travel.