Taking the train into Cambridge is for me like sitting in front of one of those cheesy 1930’s Hollywood flashback sequences. There's a green blur of trees and fields then a house I used to live at, then another blur and a place I used to go running. More blur, an old cycle route, blur again and a favourite riverside walk. It's a bit like examining a core sample of my last 30 years as I pass three of my old houses and numerous old haunts within the space of 10 minutes. I wonder why all my previous residences were so close to a railway line and think I could perhaps take part in Radio Two’s “Tracks of My Years” feature.
The flashbacks of nostalgia soft-fade into the open flat black fenland and the three carriage train achieves a hypnotic beat across the horizontal landscape. My mind starts to drift.
We reach Ely. A sea of laughing, chattering youth pours into the carriage with their bags and bikes and smells of deodorant and fresh coffee. I'm jolted back to my present where I wouldn't change places with a living soul.