Friday 24th February. The return trip from the office, now much less frequent thanks to home working, and I somehow managed to miss the train.

I didn’t miss the train from Baker Street, that wound its way, bouncingly, beneath the streets of London, and never failing to induce a Gerry Rafferty ear worm for at least a couple of stops.

I didn’t miss the train from Euston. I arrived there with ample time to join the hundreds of others craning their necks at the departure board, waiting for the platform number to be announced, before their dash to grab a seat. I definitely didn’t miss the chaos of conflicting commuter stampedes, as the passengers for the Birmingham train, the Manchester train, and Glasgow, all tried to pass through each other, as luggage laden ghosts, and failed.

No. I didn’t miss the 18:30 with its charming passengers. Like the guy that chose to sit with me just long enough to munch through a smelly toasted cheese sandwich, a packet of cheese and onion crisps, demolish a bottle of coke, before moving up the train to another seat, leaving me with the discarded wrappers. Or the delightful extended family of Cumbrians that didn’t think to reserve seats together, and didn’t let the separation of seats hinder their conversations. No, I didn’t miss hearing about how bored they were on their trip back to Carlisle, or how much charge each of them had remaining on their phones.

Nor did I miss my onward connection, there was time enough for a beer or two before I boarded the 21:31 to Skipton, with its loud group of drunks heading back to their homes in the Yorkshire Dales.

The train I missed wasn’t taking me home to my beloved family after a hard day’s grind, it was something altogether more elating, brief as it was.

At Lancaster station there is a pub called the Lock and Tithe, and it’s placement so perfectly aligned with my travel arrangements and proclivities that it’s not unreasonable to suspect divine intervention.

I left my train from London and made a bee line to the bar, ordered a pint of Blonde and a packet of crisps, and seated myself outside. The usual hustle had died down and my previous train had departed onward to Glasgow, but I noticed the platform remained busy. People with cameras were in particular abundance.

“She’s just passed Hest Bank” I heard someone say, and I put it all together. A train of interest was on its way. A train that happened to be the Flying Scotsman, a steam locomotive known throughout the world, and one I have taken the time the view across the country.

This was good news of course. I would delight in the passing of any steam engine, rare things as they are, but as excitement grew, and the spectators readied their cameras, I was gripped, irrationally, by FOMO. Fear Of Missing Out. I readied my camera phone and rose from the bench.

She whistled as she approached the station, and I tracked her through my screen, snapping as she went.

That was the best image I captured, and reviewing the blurred JPGs on my phone screen I realised I had squandered something special. In those minutes respite between obnoxious fellow passengers, the universe had conspired to reward me with a brief spectacle of sound and fire and smoke and joy. And I spent that moment looking at the tiny screen on my phone.

I had missed the train.

I will take this lesson for what it is, a reminder that I, and everyone else for that matter, should do their best to live in the now. Now is all there is and where it’s at. There is nothing on the screen that can convey the anticipation of the people on the platform that had gathered for the event, the thrill of the whistle and the clank of pistons. The feel of the warm air on your face and in your hair, displaced by the mass of speeding steel, and the lingering aroma of coal smoke and oil.

The next time fate brings me to such moments, I will be there to live them, and my camera/phone, can stay in my pocket where it belongs.