It’s much too stained and smells too strongly of car exhaust, so he feels she’d probably have a crack at him if he were to turn up in that.
She doesn’t like the shirt and sweater he’s wearing now, but at least they’re clean and in decent condition.
It’s about ten degrees outside. He hasn’t yet changed the blue autumn jacket for the blue winter coat, and the cold is blowing straight through it.
He’s been a bit distracted of late, he has to admit.
He hasn’t given any real thought to how one is supposed to present oneself when arriving upstairs.
Initially he thought one should be all spruced up and formal. Most likely there’ll be some kind of uniform up there, to avoid confusion.
He supposes there will be all sorts of people— foreigners, for instance, each one wearing a stranger outfit than the next.
Presumably it will be possible to organize your clothes once you get there— surely there will even be some sort of wardrobe department?
The platform is almost empty.
On the other side of the track are some sleepy-looking youths with oversize backpacks which, Ove decides, are most likely filled with drugs.
Alongside them is a man in his forties in a gray suit and a black overcoat. He’s reading the newspaper.
A little farther off are some small-talking women in their best years with county council logos on their chests and purple tresses of hair.
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