By Chrysanthemum

Remembering Train Spotting

They’d stand by the old fence under the signal box, a little gang of short -trousered, grubby kneed boys with their stubby pencils at the ready, waiting for the great steamy beasts to thunder by. Their excitement would manifest itself regularly in short bursts of restless activity. It was a boy’s thing. ‘You’re just a girl,’ they’d say. ‘Go away.’ ‘I’m supposed to be looking after you,’ I’d retort hotly. ‘I’ll tell Mam.’ Usually that threat was enough. Today the fence is still there. The old signal box is carefully shuttered for protection. The trees still wave softly in the breeze, and the steamy beasts still thunder through on the line, although now a preserved line. But the train spotters are still there, now grown and become grandparents or great grandparents. And no more stubby pencils and grubby notebooks. Today it’s video recording on mobile phones and uploading to YouTube.

(A Lens Baby picture)

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