I arrive at the station just in time to miss one train home - the next is due at 22:57, and is flagged on the display screens as "on time". Hooray, although that still means a wait of around a quarter of an hour.  Hey ho.  I settle into my usual standing/pacing/gazing into space routine reserved for such occasions.  I fantasise, as I often do in such situations, about pressing fire alarms, and other such antisocial activities, just to see what would happen. I look across to the opposite platform, and imagine how easy it ought to be to just hop down on to the tracks, skip across, and up the other side.

A young policemen appears on the opposite platform. They're always young now, of course. He strides with considerable purpose towards the footbridge.  As he reaches the steps, a WPC appears, heading in the same direction, also at quite a pace, but unable to keep up.  Idly, I imagine some sort of previous tiff between them, that prevents them walking together, even in the course of their job.
Both disappear up the steps.  There is a pause.
Quite suddenly, from behind the buildings on our platform, a young man emerges, running. He carries a red motorcycle helmet, and wears a t-shirt and shorts. He sprints straight to the edge of the platform, jumps down, runs heavily across the tracks, feet slipping on the ballast, and scrambles awkwardly up the other side, bashing and grazing his knee on the top of the platform as he does so (well that's one question answered).  He forces himself back to his feet, dashes out of the open gate into the sliproad, dropping a gove as he does so, and disappears. The sound of running feet quickly fades.

There's an appreciable pause, then the police reach the bottom of the steps on this side of the tracks, and start asking if anybody's seen a young man with a red bike helmet. There is much gesticulating and pointing from the assembled passengers.  The police retrace their steps across the footbridge, at a run. A taxi driver on the other side points up the sliproad:  "He's just up there - hiding in that bush."  The police disappear, and there's another moderate pause.

I check the train time on the display.  It now says that the 22:57 is late, due at 23:00. As I watch, it ticks over to 23:01

The police reappear, each bearing a handcuffed youth (oh, so there were two?).  They collect the discarded glove, and march them off to a waiting car.  Much mirth from one of the lads at the prospect of "spending the night in Brentwood nick."

Another pause.  The display now advises 23:05

The WPC returns, performs a quick seach of the platform for any other discarded items, but returns empty-handed.

The time is now 22:46 - the display unapologetically assures us our train won't show until 23:06

At exactly 22:47, the 22:47 to Liverpool Street glides into the platform.  The display, perhaps in embarrassment, is now blank.