Silence

Back from a lightning trip to London, ears and head still ringing from the intensity of the city and the incessant noise. On the way down a man in the seat in  front of me kept up a droning monologue, ostensibly to the woman next to him who listened attentively but hardly spoke. He was a taxi driver, and proceeded to recount in minute detail the trips he'd done to: 1. Stansted.
2. Ipswich. 3. Gatwick. His gravelly voice just went on and on and on, pedantic and grumbly. "Shut up!" I wanted to yell at him. "Please. Just stop talking!" I put my crossword away, and made sure I was nowhere near him when I changed trains at Ipswich. I found an empty table and settled in for the rest of the journey, but another couple joined me. They had just left a business meeting, and analysed it using businessspeak I couldn't understand but couldn't distract myself from. Crossword back in bag. On the train going home a youngish woman, ample of girth, scarlet of cheek and stertorous of breathing, collapsed onto the seat opposite me as we pulled out of the station. "Oh no," she bellowed. "I don't believe it." And that was just the beginning. In the loudest tone she proceeded to shout down her phone at someone, presumably her partner. "I'm on the wrong train! It doesn't stop at Witton! No, first stop is Colchester! NO! It doesn't stop at Chelmsford! Yes, I'm sure! No, I got on before I realised. I was in a hurry and didn't think to check. Nooo, I'm sure! They always stop at Witton. NOOOOOOOOOOOOOO! I'm sure!! Oh, why didn't I check?" And on and on and on. I know, this is just how it is out there, normal people conducting their lives in public as well as private. But it's not at all what I'm used to, and it set me jangling and quivering. What a relief to stand in my drive for a few moments, the night thin and cold, dark and crisp, a slice of moon outshining the stars. And total silence.