By Andy Blackmore I stand killing time on the platform of one of Croydon’s many decrepit railway stations. Like me, it’s seen better days, and again like me, its makeover has been on the cards for years. I do a lot of waiting and thinking here, mostly enforced. Norwood Junction: even the name sounds like a line from “The Fall and Rise of Reginald Perrin,” where, just like in the sitcom, the trains never seem to run on time. I’m snapped out of my daydreaming by the mind-bendingly delicious scent of pimento wood. With that and the screech of the squabbling parrots, I could be anywhere but the pl…