Transit

The TGV rolled on and we were quickly out of Paris, the flats stopped the hills started. The ground turned from green to beige. We passed Dijon, the staion was flying the swiss cross, the tri-colour and inexplixably the Japanese red Sun. It looked pretty dull to be honest, I dont have much to say about Djion except that I once met a man who went by that name.

We had met only once and and it allowed me to make the poorest quib of my life.

“I’m Djon” he said.

My eyes lit up, I went moist at the lips, I pumped up my chest with pride and amusment and giving him a knowing eye.

“Ha Ha, like the mustard aye?”

Originality is so hard to come by and as soon as it was out of my mouth I regretted it.  He had the manners to laugh in a good natured way but the damage was done. I sat down and over  the course of an eveing watched five of my friends say the same thing. Awful, truly awful. Credit to the man, he grinned and beared it every time as if we were all true wits.

Some time after Djon I fell asleep. That light sleep where you wake up for a few seconds to look around and drift off again. My memories of this part of the rail are like those of an old hand cranked film, the  story is simple, open green fields getting slowly browner, the occasional town, a slight increased in an germanic influence, but most of the frames are missing, the body of the reel gives the mass to the film and I only knew the story because I was in it.