Off to Cornwall later. Ah, the simple pleasures of rail travel. We've stumped-up the not inconsiderable extra for first class tickets for this jaunt. It's worth it though, particularly on a Friday. The mass exodus from the capital at the weekend makes the D-Day landings look like a walk in the facking park.
As usual too, I've been deputised to provide the nibbles. It's a tough balancing act, this. You don't want to be left bereft of snackage 10 minutes west of Reading, not on a 6-hour journey. But it's important also not to look like a pair of gauche, suburnanite bloaters when you pitch up at Padders. I think I've got the measure of it this time. I was slightly nervous that I hadn't purchased enough when it came to the checkout, but that's usually a good sign.
The other concern is losing concentration. Do this, and you'll find yourself knee-deep in monkey nut shells and self-loathing before you've cleared zone 6. Not a good start. No, the way to approach it is as one would a marathon. Start off slowly, at a comfortable pace you know you can maintain. As with distance running, you should be breathing hard, but be able to sustain a conversation. As the journey progresses, you can up the intensity. And inside the last mile, it's elbows out and full gas. You can happily go into the red at this point as cracking won't stop you finishing.
That's all there is to it.
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