The back's a soupçon better today, which is just as well because I was in danger of getting downhearted by it all. Well, I mean to say, it's day two ferrchrissakes. The best years of my life are being eaten up by this boring condition.
Still, onwards and upwards. It's off to Kings Cross straight from the office this evening for the two-hour journey to York. I've procured a massive picnic to see us right en route. Better that than worrying about being stranded by "a jumper" outside Hitchin. That's happened before. And when it does, market forces turn all the travellers against one another.
Last time it happened, some old hands dashed-off and emptied the buffet car of booze before the engine had even struck the poor unfortunate in question. The tell-tale urgent braking was enough to alert them to the imminent impact. It was ten minutes before I realised something was seriously "up". I trotted off to the buffet car for a soothing 12 cans of bitter, but the cupboard was bare. A very dark and introspective two hours followed, which I'm sure would have been grist to the mill for Arthur Miller, but which for me was nothing more than a prolonged opportunity to confront my sober unconscious mind. I did not like what I saw that night, friends. No, I did not.
Anyway, no danger of that tonight. We've half a case of Tattinger each if needs must.
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