PEOPLE-watching can be addictive. It has proved an especially useful tool for writers from across Worcestershire, who have taken part in a project to inspire creative writing from comments overheard in public.

Among them was Droitwichbased prize-winning journalist, fiction writer and poet Sarah James, whose poem 7am Rising was chosen for the resulting anthology Bugged.

The poem was inspired by an early morning at the town’s leisure centre, but she also travelled around the county as part of the project. Here she talks about her eavesdropping experiences.

It’s still early in the evening when the group get onto the train at Worcester.

Remarkably early for the jeaned lads’ night chorus of rowdy baying: “Steve’s getting married in the morning.”

The young stags that look more like long-legged fledglings of fawns nudge each other cheerily past me, “Ding, dong, the bells are gonna chime.”

They settle back comfortably into their laughter; some texting, others still singing, all merry.

It’s impossible to tell which one is actually the groom-to-be, smiley futures shine from every face – a herd of colon eyes and multiple upturned brackets.

It’s 8pm and it’s been a long day for me, full of work and walking, of walking and work.

But suddenly I’m not tired.

A middle-aged woman in a dogcollar sits down in front of me, her lips as thin and straight as a knife blade.

Somehow I (or my imagination) doubt she is the presiding priest for Steve’s morning ceremony.

I think I even see her sniff; with a slight twitch of her head, as if brushing off mosquitoes or flies.

But the trouble with peoplewatching is I need to use my eyes and now an older man in worn black leather catches my gaze. He edges onto the empty aisle seat – two breaths closer to me.

I don’t know him, but I feel sure I know his sort; that his speech will taste of stale alcohol, create an atmosphere which has gone beyond sour vomit to pure pickled vinegar.

I take out my notebook and pen.

Anything to chain my eyes down to the safety of paper, create an apparent absorption in my own jottings. Instead, my ears look up.

Down the carriage, the stag party lads are tapping a tune of youthful impatience with their hooves.

I wonder what they have planned next, where they are going to, if there will be any surprises.

Across the aisle, leather man’s feet shuffle – the cracked whisper of loose soles.

Even his boots’ tongues can’t stop talking. A sleazy lace trails undone in the dust.

I can’t hear what it says, but I know it has stories to tell.

Or one story on loop, playing again and again – mostly unheard.

In front of me, the dog-collar seems a statue – unmoved and unmoving.

Then I catch a slight rustle of newspaper – an interest in worldly events maybe, the turning of new pages or the dismissal of sensational headlines. She shifts in her seat.

Now the leather man’s boots are facing the aisle, their back to the window, with its natural green and blue bandages, the quiet grazing of sheep, evening’s first thin ribbon of pink. I look up, catch leather man’s glance, then quickly dive down again.

I dig deeper into my apparent reading, like a fox going to ground.

Meanwhile, my ears are still on guard, listening out for my stop and for words, ideas, maybe divine inspiration – anything I can use.

After all, this is legitimate in the name of writing research.

Already I’ve “borrowed” three passengers, made them “my”

strangers on the train.

But there on the seat is maybe a fragment of sound or some detail left carelessly unattended.

Something that will “get me to the church on time”. I know, of course, that however much I try to ignore him, leather man has his own plans. He will probably creep his way into one of my poems or sneak into a piece of flash fiction, catch me unawares when I’m not looking.

So perhaps I will consciously store him in cellophane, preserve his characteristics myself, as the basis for a villain in my”‘one day”

novel. But just as I’m stepping from the train, I see leather man bend to hand something back to my dogcollared woman and a smile creases her face like an upturned rainbow, giving my story a different ending.