Earl Grey please.



First sip.



The bitter platform, a dark leg-forest, then my grandmother's fingers no longer warm my hand. The seat itches behind my knees. A crescendo of slamming doors, a two-tone whistle and I am alone. A ticket is stapled, SEAFORD, to my lapel. My feet don't reach the floor. A sisal-bound wax paper packet balances on my goose-bumped knees: bread, sour butter and a winter apple, always greasy and smelling like the drink held above my head in ‘never touch’ china. I bite my nails. The passengers look away.



Even today: with every sip.

Oil of Bergamot.