I like it better here, away from the world that never stops. Away from the chaos of trains packed with sweltering bodies, passengers first pressed like sardines and then released in a rush, scattering like ants toward another day measured in coffee cups and quiet desperation. Everyone feigning urgency, as if stillness will expose something softer beneath, not befitting a fast-paced place full of red buses.

Bletchley feels like home. Quiet, but not without its demands, the kind that ask for wiser choices and slower steps. The streets are held together by people who seem to prefer calm over conquest. It snows here too. The trains are half-empty. The blue buses arrive late, if at all. And when they do, for the want of anything timely, someone strolls in on Bus 4 and keeps me five more minutes away from where I should be, making payments in large notes and needing coins.

When I ask for more – for something sharper, louder – they point me toward the city centre: glass towers, crowded pavements, the version of life my colleagues return to by the sixth day, as if rest were only ever temporary.

So, I walk instead. Past roundabouts that repeat themselves like questions I haven’t answered. I look for a zebra crossing that never quite appears. And somewhere between the waiting and the walking, I realise I still like it here, where I can clearly hear myself think.