Yesterday I was on a train for six hours – three there, three back, through two time zones and three weather conditions, and all of it without my headphones. Around me, passengers built little homes for themselves out of laptops and crisps, a whole universe on a plastic fold-down table. The computer screen acted primarily as a barrier, an emotional-load-bearing wall. Objects and arms were removed from sleeves and erected in delicate piles – illusions of privacy were magicked in the quiet coach. Rooms were fashioned on laps behind seats, or ideas of rooms; walled, breaded concepts – here is a kitchenette formed from Pret a Manger baguettes and precarious coffees, here is the memory-foam neck pillow, a portable bedroom, and here onscreen at 250km an hour is a working office, fizzing with legitimacy and blue light. I looked around with love at this side of us, we silly animals, building homes out of sticks anywhere we sit for longer than 20 minutes.
On smaller screens, my travelling neighbour pecked at a two-hour game of Candy Crush, while across the aisle a young man (blue jumper, skin that appeared to be enamelled) was playing blackjack. I looked over occasionally – through his window I could see the newbuild flats with their enclosed balconies, each one filled with boxes, and duvets and pillows pressed face-like against the glass – but for a long time I couldn’t tell if the man was winning, his face remained terribly still.
