the train journey

I usually love train journeys. There's the stressless boarding of trains without the security checks, the fact that you can watch the countryside roll past, and the chance to wander up and down the carriages to stretch your legs.

I am currently re-considering this rather romantic notion since my last train trip to Leeds a couple of weekends ago. First, someone spilt yoghurt on me at the station. Now usually, this is not a real problem, you just wipe it off and get on with life. But since I was going to see the Scottish National Orchestra later that evening, I was wearing my good shoes, my good pants, and I had even put on a shirt outside work hours. In fact, I was feeling very pleased with myself as I had perfected the preppy look (indeed, when I was walking out of Leeds train station, a lady asked me if the train I had got off had come from London). But now, I had streaks of yoghurt on my shoes.

Then I found my reserved seat was being occupied by someone who clearly had made herself comfortable. After kicking her out of my seat, I was even more pleased with myself with being assertive enough to do it. I've realised that I've become far more assertive - being meek will give people the impetus to make you eat earth, not inherit it, when you are living in London. Being pleased was a shortlived feeling when the lady's heavy suitcase fell on my head. Not one person asked me if I was ok as I replaced the suitcase precariously above me, all while the lady's little girl continued to throw a tantrum, wailing and sulking and moaning and stamping on the ground.

Impressed, I was not.

Things improved later that evening after a nice meal with my uncle and a really nice evening at the orchestra. Sitting in the audience watching the orchestra members file on stage, I realised I missed being on the stage - just for a little bit. That nervous buzz in the air as you take your seat - the glare of the lights, the expectation sitting heavily in the air (which is usually just the overbearing warmth in the hall). As my concentration sharpened, I remembered the little things that you forget with the passage of time. The protocol of the deputy leader of the orchestra leading the tuning of the orchestra. The oboe's clear note, piercing through the fine tuning. The leader, the most senior of the violin players walking on. The conductor acknowledging the applause.

I wasn't sure whether I was going to be able to last 2 hours worth of intense classical music. But I had underestimated the beauty of the music. In a Ravel piece, the violins, together, would peak above the woodwind, and graciously ebb away to an oboe or bassoon or clarinet soloist. There was serenity at last - I do wonder however whether this newfound appreciation of classical music was as a result of my classical music traning as a kid (read: being made to play the piano and violin like every good Chinese boy), or whether the fact that I had been so removed from classical music that this was in fact a re-birthing for me?

Though, on the other hand, does anyone want to go clubbing with me in London?