She’s given it some thought   And it’s giving her some grief   Could it be she’s bored beyond belief?   By the time she says goodbye   She’s looking somewhere else   Stifling a sigh and gritting teeth      At the open door she pauses   It’s grey and wet and warm   Before the pending storm   Every now and then she misses horses   We’re too young for regrets   This is the closest that she gets      So I sleep in with the cynics   While she pushes from her mind   The twenty-seven minutes of the Sandringham line   The suburbs sliding past   Stretching to the sea   Her fingers brush the glass unconsciously      At the open door she pauses   It’s grey and wet and warm   Before the pending storm   Every now and then she misses horses   We’re too young for regrets   Surely we’re too young for regrets      I sat backwards on the train   And suddenly the city was further and further in front of me