Teenage pregnancies are on the increase. This is the first thing I hear after waking in my seat, almost exactly two hours after leaving the city on my way back home. These six words somehow sting me into life, abruptly wiping out my tiredness and forcing me to bolt upright in my window seat.
I don't know why these words make me sit to attention. I don't know anyone, teenaged at least, who is pregnant. I don't know any teenagers who have had babies, plan to have babies in the near future, or, to my knowledge, have had abortions or miscarriages. Yet these words still somehow bother me.
Teenage pregnancies are on the increase. Teenage pregnancies are on the increase.
I try to put it out of my mind. Try to think about how it is the end of summer and how in two weeks I will be 16. Try to think about how I am three days away from the start of my final school year and how Louise hasn't called or sent a text message for two days. Try to think about why my sister was crying when I phoned home on Wednesday. Try to think about which Middle Eastern country the American politicians on TV last night said they wanted to bomb next.
But all my mind wants to focus on is teenage pregnancies and why, if it is correct, they are on the increase. The woman who made the remark continues talking to her friend. They are sat directly behind me and I imagine they are in their late 40s, with tanning salon glows and heavily jewelled fingers. I can detect a faint regional accent when they talk but presume they are upwardly diverging to make themselves come across a lot posher than they are.
"And the Government want to give free condoms to kids in schools. That tells them it's okay to go out and....you know," the same woman says.
"I know, it's terrible," says her friend. "I fear for this country in 15, 20 years' time when the kids grow up and their parents are still only 30."
Teenage pregnancies are on the increase. I fear for this country in 15, 20 years' time. I feel my temperature rising. I am sweating and feeling slightly nauseous. I am telling myself to stay calm, breathe deeply. I check my watch. It shows 9.01am. Half an hour from home. I try to put the women out of my mind, think about getting back and waiting for Louise to call.
I know the batteries in my Walkman are dead but I put my headphones on and press 'play' anyway. The Ash tape starts up and, for a few seconds, it manages to squeeze out a mid-song guitar riff but then grinds to a halt and all I can hear is the clatter of the train on the tracks and a toddler crying somewhere in the carriage.
The women have stopped talking but their words are still spinning round my head. I don't know why it bothers me, so I put my head in my hands and exhale hot air onto my palms, all the time keeping my headphones on. I feel tired again but decide I can't risk falling asleep so close to my final destination. Five minutes before home, I leave my seat and go to stand by the door. I don't even glance in the direction of the women, just make my way to the exit where I stand, watching the countryside fizz by as the train thunders along, a blur of green fields flying past as I get nearer and nearer to my home.
The train pulls into the station and I am the first passenger off, pushing my way through the platform towards my mum, who had taken the morning off work to come and pick me up.
She smiles as she sees me over the heads of an ensemble of day-tripping pensioners and I smile back. But then I remember that teenage pregnancies are on the increase and I fear for this country in 15, 20 years' time.