What I put before you today is not so much a mystery as it is a collection of rather curious events. Perhaps you will find them of the greatest inconsequence and nothing more than a series of unfortunate and rather unimportant coincidences. Perhaps you will find them entertaining but nothing more than stories from a sly and often formulaic trickster. Or perhaps you will find within them a deeper mystery that concerns us all and not just the party involved, a mystery so strange and powerful (and dare I say macabre!) that it effects each and every one of us in our own and separate way. I merely put the words in a certain order, it is up to you to interpret them.
After a few days of planning that were horribly similar to that of the week before, 'What do you want to do this weekend?' Shrug. 'You guys wanna go to London?' Shrug. 'Day trip?' Shrug. '9:02 train?' Shrug. 'Museums?' Shrug. 'Shopping?' Shrug. 'Another pint?' 'Yes Please.', we decided a day trip to London would be a nice change of pace from dreary old Guildford. So it was to be that our party, of oh let's say 13, were to meet on the platform at a quarter to 9 to catch the eastbound train at 9:02.
It should be said at this point that time and I have had an agreement for some, well, time. It keeps a relatively steady pace and let's me know when my favorite shows are on, when I have to get up in the morning, how long I have to cook pasta, and whether or not I am going to be late, and I overlook the fact that it moves too fast when you want it to slow down, the fact that it is the primary factor in my aging, and the fact that you can never travel through it. We live in pretty peaceful harmony. It seems, however, that time does not necessarily agree with everyone. In particular, women.
Now I should say, before I indulge, that this particular incident could have been caused by miscommunication, a certain amount of Lost in Translation, if you will, but that does not fit very nicely with my terrific time segment, so I will continue to blame the issue on women and time.
Because a few of us live in the princely estates of Manor Park (if you don't know, it is a particularly well-to-do housing complex just off of campus), we decided to meet at reception at 08:00 to catch the bus to the train station. A wholly splendid idea as we were to find out the bus leaves at 08:01. So, as I walked towards the reception at 07:59 (as is my nature, lest we forget), watching one of our Manor Park group run in a breathtaking fashion after the 08:01 bus only to see it pull away in a fiendish and disgusting manner, I thought to myself that time had indeed got the better of me this morning. The three of four Manor Parks (as we shall be known in all future regards) waited for the 08:32 bus whilst calling everyone in our party that, alas, we were going to be late. As the 08:32 bus approached so too did the fourth member of the Manor Parks (who himself has a rather nasty disagreement with time). On the bus ride into town, however, time was in an awfully kind mood. It allowed us to reach the station at 5 till, purchase the tickets, and make it to the platform with minutes to spare. "Jolly Good! Jolly Good Indeed!" thought I, "Not so supreme are we, time? Perhaps you remember our little agreement? You have forgotten who you are dealing with," and other such remarks went through my head as the east-bound train approached. But my eyes were not as pleased as one might think to see this train approach, for it seemed four of our party were missing. So we stood there--like children in a candy store unable to taste the sweetness, we stood there. As the doors closed on our triumphs, then, and only then, did the four of them run up the incline to the platform shouting apologies only to see the train slowly amble toward London. They came over to our stern looks with puppy dog eyes, but what could we do? Time made a decision and it decided against us in that moment. There was nothing more to do but role your eyes and shake your head. Women.
Ah well, we'll catch the 09:17.
As I sat quietly on the 09:17 train, I could not help but think what would have occurred on the 09:02 train. More than likely, nothing, but still, one could not help but think. Perhaps I would have caused an imbalance in the train thus leading to a horrible catastrophe. Perhaps I would have happened by a man with crutches who had the unpleasant idea of removing himself from the train mid-journey, to which I or one of my colleagues could have bravely attempted to save him. Would we have succeeded? Would we have the courage, the wherewithal, the competence? Perhaps I would have had a casual run in with a woman who was entangled in a serious affair and, in confidence of an empty rail car, enlisted my help to off her husband. Would I dare? Would I have the confidence to make my own decision? Or perhaps while reading the paper I attempted to cross my legs and accidentally bumped the stranger across from me, thus starting a stirring and spine-tingling conversation. Would we get away with it? Was it the perfect crime? Or, most probable, it would have resembled the 09:17 train. The one with no stories to tell. The one void of intrigue. The one that was not invented by Alfred Hitchcock. The one that did not carry on it murderers, adulterers, thieves, mad-men, and general no-gooders. The one we got off at 09:47 at Waterloo Station.
But, then again, one never knows...
Catch Sir Nate's next installment of The Mysterious Affair at Baker Street in the near future!
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