Perfect Day

has rained in the night and the air is colder but the washed-clean blue sky is bursting with sunshine. He finds his sunglasses in the inside pocket of his jacket and walks away from the house, plucking a dandelion clock from the hedgerow.
    It is the sort of morning that makes you believe you can change.

    Alexander walks into the cool entrance hall of the station as the train before his usual one pulls in. He makes an instant decision to go for it rather than stopping to buy a paper and a bar of chocolate for his breakfast.
    As the train pulls out of the station, Alexander sits down in the last available seat. One or two people glance at him as if he’s come to a party to which he wasn’t invited. Nearly everyone is male, and dressed for the City. The man opposite him is wearing a navy pinstriped suit and though he is almost completely bald, there’s dandruff on the slightly greasy collar. He looks at Alexander’s khaki chinos, then back at a ringbound report he is reading.
    If Alexander had been called upon yesterday to say what colour the seats of his usual carriage were, or to describe the configuration of his fellow passengers, he knows that he would not have been able to. Now, sitting in a predominantly red compartment, he knows that his usual seat is blue, that it faces in the direction the train is going in, not backwards, like the one he’s now in. His usual travelling companions are a middle-aged woman with a variety of large gilt earrings who tries occasionally to make conversation, a girl with orange streaks in her hair who touches up her make-up just before they reach Victoria, and, next to him, a younger man with a purplish birthmark on his right cheek, who has a portable CD player with headphones that rasp tinnily throughout the journey. Alexander feels their absence.
    The only distinguishing mark of the man sitting beside him now is a chunky gold ring on his wedding finger; the rest of him is hidden behind the Daily Telegraph. Alexander takes in the headlines, then looks out of the window. Usually he sees the landmarks of the journey before the train has gone past not after, and it makes him feel a bit weird, as if he’s on a slightly altered plane of reality.
    A mobile phone rings. The electronic rendition of Beethoven’s Pastoral is further down the carriage, but several people dive into their briefcases and pull out their handsets.
    ‘I’m on the train,’ says the owner loudly. ‘It’s on time...’
    The words act as an automatic brake trigger. Immediately the train begins hissing and grinding to a halt. There’s a collective intake of breath. The man who is speaking into the phone drops his voice guiltily. Then the train starts up again, and relief ripples through the carriage. Alexander looks at his hand and sees that he too has pulled his mobile phone from his pocket. The bald man opposite actually smiles at him, welcoming him to their club. Alexander looks from the phone to the bald man. He dials the number of the school and puts the phone to his ear.
    Nobody’s in yet. The answerphone clicks on. Alexander is about to cut off the call when he senses that the bald man is listening.
    ‘It’s Alexander. I’m not coming in today.’
    As he cuts the call off, the phone bleeps. He looks at the screen: the message low battery flashes. Alexander puts the phone back into his jacket pocket. It bleeps again. He takes it out again and, with a triumphant flourish, switches it off.
    The train stops again on the bridge just before it reaches Victoria . The river is high and a strong breeze plucks waves from the glinting surface, making the silver water look as cool and inviting as the ocean. Alexander’s fellow passengers fold their papers, close their laptops, neurotically click and unclick the locks on their briefcases. One or two stand up and make their way to the door so that they’ll be first out. Eventually, the train heaves itself into the station. Alexander is the last to leave.
    The station concourse smells of ground coffee. Alexander heads as usual for the entrance to the Underground, then remembers that he has given himself the day off. He doesn’t know why he did that. The necessity of showing himself to be different from the other occupants of the carriage isn’t so pressing now that he’s not trapped with them, but since it’s done, he’s not inclined to change his mind. Why waste such a sunny day in the basement common room? He has no classes today, just a few reports to