Central Station

The lunch time crowd.

It is a different feel to the false confidence of the morning rush, or the measured exhaustion of the evening. It seems a feeling of awkward startlement, a sense of surprise at being in such a place in the middle of the day.

Bright Hawaiian shirts over white t-shirts, over pot bellies. Wrinkled faces, puckered mouths, huddled over a packet of French fries, seemingly befuddled minds wondering what to do with the day, the week, their lives.

The staff at the fast food counter, with endless customers, smiles and patience. I cannot imagine dealing with the avalanche of humanity they handle daily. For five seconds, a girl looks tiredly at the ceiling – five seconds longer than the franchise allows for contemplation I surmise. I catch fragments of conversation ‘I started at 6.30…’ - she is thinking of finishing her shift, her crystal eyes blue as her uniform.

The teenagers. Shouldn’t they be in school? The couples, the boys’ arms protectively, possessively around their partners’ waists, while the girls suitably attached preen themselves like peacocks. I wonder what such young love must feel like, and whether teenagers are as cynical as popular culture imagines them to be.

The children - the wandering, inattentive, magpie eyes - the sense of wonder you see in most children in public places. Some of them are seeing things for the first time - what an amazing feeling that must be.