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Transit

I wait with others under a metal shelter by a number taped to a post: it is drizzling gently. Our attention is focussed on an orange van with oil dirty hubs that will take us into the city. A young man unlocks it, invites us aboard – struggling with the language he summons those with tickets for the 2.30. Four of us climb on – others thrust papers forward – for the 1.40, 1.15, 2.40. He flushes with the burden of selection. An old man shows him a boarding card -‘ no no must be for bus – this for plane’. The man dressed in working best, looks blank – ‘Little english – where..?. The van fills slowly – a couple is allowed on – they have two small children – ‘but you say three only!’ – ‘this one sit with me’ – a well dressed pair, mother and daughter, are left at the stand orbiting vacantly holding tickets for the 1.15 . The A4 sheets serving as tickets are torn roughly in half and crammed into the passenger glove box. The sliding door is hauled shut and we head out on the rain-slicked roadway.

A smiling trucker stands in the rain at the curving entry to the motorway holding a set of transit plates and a two part sign: – ‘York Shire’.

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