LONDON PRIDE

Funny Old Station

By DAVID ROG,ERS

ISIT., in my under-pants, and shiver under Waterloo Station. 'suns PRESSED; TEN MINUTES,' said the notice. I had asked the barber

and been shown into the washroom. A youth in a short-sleeved blue sweater, with tattoo marks on his arms, had appeared. 'Pressed. Right. Six and six. Right.' He had put up an old ironing- In there.' He sent me into one of the bathrooms that open on to the washroom. I sat on a hard wooden chair and shivered. Up above, trains to the south coast are packed, but down here it is cold. On the floor are puddles of water. There !s a general smell of urine and carbolic. The bottom of the bath is covered with a thin layer of mud. The walls are bare and high.

'Trousers.' An arm appears and waves my trousers around the door. They are hot with a knife-edge crease. Thankfully, I put them on. The jacket takes longer. I wait and try not to look at the bath.

Presently, suited again, I emerge from the dungeonious Gentlemen's Lavatories, and walk quickly round the Auto Magic Heel Bar to shake off a man in a light plastic mac who has followed me from the washrooms. I check the train departures. There are forty minutes to wait before the next Portsmouth Harbour train leaves from Platform 7. But there is much to do.

Waterloo is its own city, with its own laws, and its own police. You can eat, drink, and (taking a chance) sleep there. You can buy turnips and toothpaste and a set of Seychelles stamps for fifty shillings. There is a Tip Top Shirt Service and, of course, a cinema. A niodman's dream cf a city. `No church, a high population turn-

over, canned music, and it never rains.' The modman paused from selecting a coffee with

sugar but no milk from the automat, and in- clined his head in my direction. `Do you always have your suits pressed under Waterloo Station?' `No. Do you?'

'Suits!' He indicated his Huckstepp jeans and T-shirt. `I went there for a wash. Sixpence. Huh.' He drank half of the coffee and threw the rest away.

'Have you been outside this morning?'

'What do you mean?'

'Outside the station. Is it still raining? It was last night.'

'You've been here all night?'

He gets very slightly hostile. 'So what? You couldn't do much. Nor could they.'

'They?'

He waves a hand in the direction of the station

'Now, tenderly place your arm around her shoulders . .

offices: 'Yeah. Everyone knows about the tramps, but a court case with a modman using the station

as a back parlour and you couldn't keep the kids away. About time the music started. I feel about that music. Wasted. The marches in the morning --that's all right--but the evening waltzes, it's a shame.' He looks sad. 'If only they would dance. Just imagine a snowball waltz at six o'clock. The whole station dancing. The bars overflowing. The trains empty and the guards letting people sit out on the platform. Funny old station, this.'

He, points to 'Till Called For Parcels Office.' 1 just don't understand. Nor that one'—'When Shut Call At Office Nearly Opposite Union Jack Club.' 'There just isn't an office nearly opposite the club.'

All this time we had been manoeuvring in front of the Stamp shop and receiving suspicious looks from the man behind the glass. He started to walk towards the York Road entrance, That. was a mistake. On the underground there is a notice saying. "Way Out" and "Main Line Station." I understand what is main line, but what is way out around here?' He disappears in the direction of the fravelator.

I walk back to the stamp shop. In the window is a card: 'Caution is the mother of wisdom. The most amateurishly repaired stamps are being ()Niel! in the club books outside these premises, in plausible strangers, whilst I am not here, no able whatever is attached to this worthless junk. John Meyer. Est. 27 years.' 1 hurry away, past the Financial Times's ball hovering on its pin- nacle, past the tea room ('Closed at four o'clock,' says the notice, 'try the Surrey Room,'), push through the crowd around the free information machine and into the Horse Shoe Bar. No sooner have I grasped a pint than a seedy-looking man in an. old trench-coat approaches. 'It's not a nice day. If it wasn't raining, I'd be going to the races. I expect you would be going too,'

'Sorry.'

Sadly he moves away and taps another arm. 'I know the head lad,' I hear him say.

The clock hands move towards ten to and I run for the train. We glide out through the dirt and gloom of Lambeth.

When I return in the early evening, prompt to the second, the station is a battleground. 'Where does the eighteen-fifteen go from?' says a wit in my ear. The rush hour herds and sways across the concourse, swamping the escalators and drowning the kiosks. I want to inquire about another train, but somehow, I get swept in the wrong direction and amid the barrage of um- brellas and handbags I find myself in the ad- ministrative offices. The corridors are cool and peaceful and confusing. 'ENTRANCE BY DOOR 4I2,'

says a notice on door 413, but door 413 merely

says 'PRIVATE,' This is a new Waterloo--all natural wood and flowers and fitted carpets—but not for long: I quickly discover the old drab green

of a BR door and come out where the post office vans are loading.

'You off?' The modman has found a corner by the mailbags. 'I will be soon. Most don't

come till later.' Two shuffling figures emerge from the South Suburban section of the station. One carries a carrier-bag and stops to search in a litter bin. The modman grimaces, 'Got to watch your company, see. I think I'll head for Victoria. I hear they got some plush new bogs there.'