I have been away from this train journey and platform for a while. The first thing I notice on returning is how grey and statue-like the inhabitants are. It is a cold autumnal morning in suburban London, which casts a steely glow across the faces of my fellow commuters. They stand immobile, like the chorus in an avant garde production played in the round waiting for their cue to come to life. The announcement from another platform drifts over on a gust to say the train to St Albans has been delayed by fifteen minutes. This is clearly not their cue, as barely a flicker of emotion registers on the players of Platform 1. Perhaps this is par for the course. Meanwhile the cue for Platform 3 grinds its way in and as if by magic we marionettes dance to the doors and get on.