Victoria Coach Station is like a cheapo airport. If you take away all the pilots and planes and glamour but keep all the suitcases and queues, then that's basically what we've got here.
For a lot of people it's their first taste of London, or England, even. They step on a coach in France and two hours later here they are: rolling into Victoria Coach Station still half asleep. You can see them unfolding their bones through the window... their stiff legs tumbling down the steps as they get tipped out into a garage full of confused and bemused commuters all trying to find their suitcases and kids and dads.
Where's dad? Where's mum? Where's the gate? What gate is it? Where's my bag? Get a trolley! Piles of suitcases and backpacks are coming out of the hold and people are tripping and picking their way through the rivers of people trying to grab them quick before some hoodlum walks off with it.
It's a million different languages all spoken at once. Loud tannoy announcements coming one after the other. No smoking on the forecourt! No waiting by the gate! No doing this or that! Can I see your ticket please? No, this is not the coach to Cambridge this is the overnight to Edinburgh -- and stop blocking up the ticket hall with your surfboard and skis.
Jesus Christ this place is a nightmare. I'm not even going anywhere and it's still stressing me out with all the people and pigeons all over the place. Let me see... what examples of life can I see around me: a party of old ladies off to the seaside. A pack of p*ssed-up students off to university. A crazy bloke twirling his tatty plastic bag in circles above his head and a lady with bright blue hair eating a ham baguette. Two cops walking around with automatic weapons, and someone pretending that he's playing trumpet tunes on a traffic cone (he's just shouting through the hole in the end).
I can also see a few touching scenes of couples cuddling and crying at the gate. I guess they must be parting for the weekend.
"Don't forget about me," she's sniffing, whilst he's busy fumbling through his pocket for his getaway ticket.
"I've got to go now, love," he says. "Or my wife and kids will wonder where I am."
I can see lots of excited children smiling widely too -- it's like an adventure to them. They are already thinking of Mickey Mouse at the other end of the journey whilst the parents are still wracking their brains trying to remember what they've forgotten.
It's easy to forget how exciting bustle can be for a kid. I remember when I used to be a backpacker and I always looked forward to moments like this. If truth be told I think I enjoyed the travelling more than the sightseeing because making your way to a different destination is half the fun, isn't it? You don't mind the busy stations when you're twenty and all you've got is a backpack and B-O.
You can guess the size of their adventure by the size of their bag. The most daring travellers always travel light -- one toothbrush and a spare pair of pants is all you need (one pair to wear, and one to wash).
When I was younger I didn't even bother booking a hotel at the other end. I didn't take out travel insurance either -- what an idiot. You wouldn't catch me doing that these days. I'm more like one of these worriers standing in front of me right now... holding a case that's bigger than a caravan. They've packed their entire lives inside that thing. They've dreamt up every possible terrible scenario -- wet weather, hot weather, earthquakes, volcanoes... sun cream, spot cream, ice cream. Eight jumpers (one for every day of the week plus a spare), eight dresses and eight vests and eight hats and eight monocles and eight false noses and eight of everything else as well.
Other couples are just staring into the middle distance (the married ones). They've got nothing to say until they get there. They'll take a few pictures and buy some foreign chocolates and then it will be back at work on Monday morning like nothing ever happened. The backpackers will get drunk and battered and won't remember a thing about it, whilst the married ones will recall every tedious second for years to come.
"Do you remember when you lost the tickets at Victoria Coach Station, dear?"
I'm sitting in front of the departure boards watching fifty people staring up at the lights in a trance, all wondering what to do. You can see it in their faces that they haven't got a clue what's going on. Some of them are tugging gently on their partner's sleeve hoping that they've worked it out. Every ten-seconds the screen flicks over to a new array of words and numbers and there is a collective sigh from the crowd. Their brains get reset -- rebooted -- and they have to wait for it to come round again before they can have another go.
We're all just standing here, waiting. Waiting, waiting, waiting.
Technically I'm not even waiting for anything but I'm still standing here, waiting. But it's a waiting room, isn't it? So that's all you can do -- wait.
