Exitstationalism

Oxford train station barriers at 18.56. Outgoing. I didn't have a train ticket so joined the queue to purchase one off Paulo Menzies and his portable ticket machine/man bag. The queue was twelve deep. Fronting it were two oriental twins, straight out of a Wes Anderson movie. They were extremely confused as what to get. This was going to be a long wait.

Peering into the station itself, I could see the ticket office had no queue. I plucked up some assertive behaviour, left the queue and approached Deepak Moohasta, the taciturn barrier guard.
'Look, this will take ages. The ticket office hasn't a queue. Could you please let me through and I'll get my ticket there?'
Deepak looked unsure. 'Can I trust you?'
'Totally. I could give you my watch as insurance. It was worn by my grandfather when he escaped from the Isle of Man during the Falklands War.'
'No need. I'll trust you.'

Once let through, 14% of me did actually think of just doing a runner but Deepak had trusted me and surely that's gotta be worth £3? Alas, as I reached the only manned window I was met by the ticket officer, Herman Collinger, turning his sign deftly from OPEN to CLOSED. Herman could obviously read the disappointment on my face but showed little empathy. He was tired. Problems at home. Marital and non-marital.

My 'do a runner' temptations had risen to 40%, however, as I turned there was Deepak Moohasta standing square in front of me. He'd followed. He hadn't trusted me at all. The Shit.
'You'll have to use the self-service ticket machine now' he barked.
'But you can't get a discounted 'Oxford Night Out' ticket from those machines.' I countered.
A neo grimace took hold of Deepak's face, 'Then you'll have to get back in the queue at the barrier and buy off Paulo Menzies, AND the queue's bigger now!'

He ushered me through the barrier to rejoin the queue. He was right too. Another train had obviously arrived and now the queue was double the size. As I sulked to the end of it I passed the girl who was behind me originally. If I had been her I would have offered myself back into the queue ahead of her. But she wasn't me. She was her. And she didn't offer me back into the queue. The Shit.

I took my place at the back of the queue and huffed and puffed a little. Was it really worth the £1.75 saving to wait in this queue? No it wasn't! I contemplated re-approaching Deepak at the barriers to let me back through to use the self-service machine after all.

I didn't do this. No. Instead, I laughed. I laughed out loud. I laughed at the absurdity of life and at it's complex beauty. I laughed at myself and for myself. And for Deepak, Paulo, Herman and the girl in the queue who hadn't let me back in. And in the laughter was born a light. And in this light I shall forever stand. And queueing shall never be the same again.