There was me, and a monk, and a peasant-type person who used Beer Leo boxes instead of suitcases. We three were alone in a carriage, the last of eight comprising the train. For one reason or another, today we were all bound for Ubon Ratchathani on the Cambodian border.
The peasant slept fitfully - a small bottle of alcohol could be seen protruding from his right trouser pocket. The monk made notes in a small ledger - he scribbled thoughtfully with a pencil, the tones of his etchings alone were therapeutic, and he, himself, was shrouded in serenity. I studied the scenery out the window. It's always a joy to pass through the North-East Thai countryside. Very much unlike the dramatic swathes of dense vegetation in the south of the country, it was flat, and it was parched and it was dusty and it was barren. It was also the most charismatic part of the world I'd ever been too.
The late afternoon sun hung heavy on the horizon. Asian open-billed storks made sporadic sorties into the ailing paddies, perchance to provide their young with a final meal of the day.
I snap open a can of Chang Classic, my 18th of the day. It's cold, fizzy and thoroughly refreshing. It compliments the journey perfectly. Drinking on trains is up there with life's ultimate pleasures.
Through cupped hands I manage to light a cigarette. I inhale deeply, enjoying the sensation of the smoke being pulled into my lungs. I breath out, the vapor immediately disperses having been sucked through the window.
I close my eyes. This is fucking glorious.
An automated twang stirs me from my slumber...
"The next station is Turnham Green. Change here for the District Line..."
I close my eyes again. Tightly.