Dear Thomas,
You know me, sometimes I like just to sit and watch.
Not that I ever plan it - it's hardly something you schedule into the day.
But occasionally an opportunity crops up. This particular one being in York railway station.
In the cafe. An hour to wait for a connecting train. A coffee.
And no 3G means radio silence.
Funny how the smartphone which made the big wide world so available to us, has, in many ways, stopped us looking at life being lived right under our noses.
So I sit and watch and write what I see.
Chuggers.
A cheery duo. One tall, lean with a pink mohican; his bobble-hatted colleague toasty in a parka.
They have blue jackets on with 'RSPCA' printed on the back.
They sing, they smile, they play air guitar, they cajole and cadge, plead, but not quite beg. They jauntily hail each passer-by.
They must have hides as thick as a rhino's.
Responses vary. Commuters spot them a mile off and quicken their pace - their rush to get from A to B an excuse not to stop.
Some brush past saying nothing, pretending they're not there at all.
Others frown and give no possible opening, a curt 'no', a blunt but speedy 'no thankyou', the occasional apologetic smile, sometimes, even a bit of banter.
But in the hour I spend here I see no success, no reward for their energetic, painful-to-watch antics.
Does chugging work? Does it really? I'd be fascinated to know.
Inside the cafe a group of well-attired women with perfectly-placed silver hair kiss and catch-up at a nearby table over cappuccinos and decaff lattes. They are elegant, poised, and command attention. One looks like Helen Mirren.
I don't think they meet often. I think this is a 'Christmas exchange' meeting.
I don't think they are close friends. They are friendly, but not warm to each other.
Their handbags disgorge piles of Christmas cards which are dealt and received over the table and talk ensues of Christmas journeys, cruises and, right on cue, just when I thought they might be different, of grandchildren.
I wish, on behalf of my own parents, perhaps, that people of that certain age would find something else to talk about. It irritates me.
One woman dominates the conversation and I can tell from the body language of the others that they merely tolerate her. Does she feel it? I wonder if she does and her discomfort makes her louder still.
There's a skin forming on my coffee.
A teenager walks in. He's about 17, maybe 18, a black shirt over a t-shirt, a woolly hat pulled low and his backside hangs out of his jeans.
Here's a question..do they make jeans to fit so, or is it some crafty work with buttons and a belt? I don't understand why boys dress like that but I guess I'm not supposed to.
He is insulated, cut off from the world by the sound in his headphones. He looks at no-one - just mutters his order then retreats, almost embarrassed. He looks uncomfortable in his skin. And I remember having the same awkwardness.
One old lady sits alone with her pull-along suitcase propped up on the chair opposite her. She stares into the distance.
She's been sitting here for much longer than I have and I wonder where she is in her head.
Something seems to snap her out of her reverie and she glances at her watch before rising from the chair. She looks sad. But I think we all do in repose, when we haven't got our 'faces on' for the world.
It's quite warm in the cafe, welcomingly so. But we all keep our hats and gloves on.
It occurs to me that stations like this are worlds in miniature. All lives are here - rich, poor, happy, sad, on the up, down and out, all carrying our bags, all carrying our baggage.
It reminds me of something I was told once. We all have a story. We all ARE a story.
And I am overwhelmed by the urge to close the cafe doors and to refuse anyone permission to leave until they recount theirs.
Inane pop music. Then Frosty the Snowman.
"I'll make some more tuna sandwiches," says the chap behind the counter to the assistant.
A family come in and sit near. Old man, old woman and younger woman. The man looks exhausted and a little unwell. His wife and daughter (I'm assuming) see him to the chair opposite me before going to the counter to order.
I smile at him and he nods back.
His wife and daughter return and, as I start clearing up my cup, stirrer, sugar sachet, the older lady asks: 'can I pop my tea bag in your empty cup pet?'
'Course you can,' says I.
They are heading back to Newcastle. I'm heading back to Chesterfield. We chat about the weather, about the woes of Christmas shopping, about which trains we're catching.
Time to go.
We leave at the same moment; a fleeting goodbye and Merry Christmas.
I head off to platform 3...
