It's the kind of grey November day that washes away reflections 
In the eyes of hotel porters 
And the latticed wooden benches by the sea contain no travellers 
Or Irish lady authors 
And the girl in the raincoat walks the lanes of Brighton 
With her collar turned against the wind 
And hovers in the doorways of second-hand bookshops 
Among the dust and fading print 
And you're not the one she's thinking of 
And you're not the one she really wants 
Just a point along the line she's leaving from 

She goes into a cafe, orders tea, looks at the menu 
But there's nothing really on it 
And the place is as deserted as a plaza in a heat-wave 
And the cloth has jam upon it 
But the girl in the raincoat doesn't stop to count the tea-leaves 
Or turn to see the mists around the sun 
For the winter's unfolding around her 
And it's time for moving on 
And you're not the one she's thinking of 
And you're not the one she really wants 
Just a station on the line she's leaving from 

And so you sit there in the middle of the carpet 
With her suitcases around you 
And it comes to you she journeyed to the center of your life 
But she never really found you 
Just another girl in a raincoat 
Who shared the passing of the days 
And you're glad of the warmth that she gave you 
And you hardly need to say 
That she's not the one you're thinking of 
No she's not the one you really want 
Just a point along the line you're leaving from