We're off tut Yorkshire tomorrow, the missus and I. The plan is to leap on a train at Kings Cross at 7ish and arrive in the north two and a half hours later, fed, watered and raring for plain-speaking action.
I love going to the north at this time of year. In my febrile, southern imagination, it's a winter place, the north - like Berlin or Stockholm, say. Nothing wrong with that; all places have a preferred season when they really come into their own. Madrid, for example, needs to be experienced in the summer. I've been there in the winter, and it's facking freezing. It doesn't work. They're not geared-up for it.
It's like when it's boiling hot in London - the denizens go a bit doolally. It's fun to watch the carnage unfold, but you know it can't last. This rule is writ even larger in the north of England. It needs to be chilly. It's cold in London today, so I'm hoping for the best.
My only problem with travelling north is that I feel so ridiculously fey and affected. I come across like a RADA rendering of a middle-class, slightly fey Southerner. It's like when I'm in Ireland, which I am regularly. My accent sounds stuffy and my syntax wordy and archaic. Actually, the reason for that is because my syntax is wordy and archaic. I must cut that out...presently.
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