By rights I should really still be asleep, or at the very least slowly waking up over my morning coffee. Instead I find myself heading due south with Foley, destination King's Cross, for onward travel to a meeting in the swanky West End. We are travelling with the east-coast train operator that has just announced that it cannot run the line any longer and is handing it back to the government. So I am hoping that we make it back before the whole thing goes tickets up and the good old British Rail pork pie makes its return. Still, if we do get stranded down in the Smoke, at least I am suitably attired for the heat wave conditions, in a light shirt and trousers. So, it was absolutely no surprise to me when the taxi driver who brought us to the station gleefully informed me that it was chucking it down in London.
The train guard this morning sounds like he may have shares in his current employer's business. He can barely summon the will to blah blah blah his blah blah blahs. I'm just glad he's not driving the train. He makes Gordon Brown sound like a children's entertainer on acid.
Perhaps he is fed up because he has to share a little office with the guy coming round to collect the rubbish, whose body odour is something else. I just wish it was somewhere else. As he passes through the train he leaves a trail of spluttering passengers' who are now probably trying to hide any remaining litter before bin-bag Bob returns. Or maybe Happy Harry the guard is sick of the sight of his daily bacon sandwich. That I could understand. I can only assume that Justin the catering manager is practicing for the up-coming national flattest sandwich competition.THER that or he has very little space in which to store them so makes sure they comply to strict height control standards.
You will be glad to know that Foley seems unperturbed by it all and is having a good snooze. Not a bad idea.