Our apartment was at the end of the Blue Line. Through my bedroom window I used to watch, hoping to see father arriving home on the first down-service each morning. Mother said he was a barman in the city: by night he served sparkling cocktails to big shots, during the day he slept. We never had much, but we never went short, and father always told us such great stories.
The Blue Line now terminates three stops back up the line at Farrow and Main; the track bed lies overgrown and abandoned. But my memories of those times remain as colourful as the days they were made.
These words form my entry into Friday Fictioneers photo prompt challenge.
(Apologies to CEAyr, no jokes again this week. I will try and raise a titter before Christmas, if I can.)