This week is the best week to catch the 7.27am.
It may be cold when I tumble out of bed too close to six; my limbs may creak as I do the 33 and stomach may churn as the Innocent sluices into my pre-awoken system. And the wind as I lock and leave may be hard-edged and squeeze ice from my eyes as I trek to the station, stumbling blindly through the whey-faced dawn. But this week, anyone catching the 07.27 from my local station rides into town through the awakening day. And it’s magical.
Passing the stations of South London, sitting on the right hand side of the train facing backwards, I watch the sun struggle skywards. In those few minutes, the scene over the rooftops morphs from dim greyness like TV static into the deep red of the awakening day, then the strengthening flames of daylight, and finally the harsh torch of winter triumphs over the town, just before the train pulls under the hood of Victoria to dock with a thousand others as London’s new week begins.
Seize the moments. They’re all we have.