Sat on the 10.06 seat E2. First to get served from the trolley. Not that I’ll want much more than a cup of tea. It’s been a full-on three days in London. Really I’m in a state of trance. Never got round to my planned visit to camden market yesterday. Breakfast started at 8am and finished at 10.30. Lunch then started at noon and finished at around 5.30. Ma gurd. An early night is called for.
A French woman is holding a loud conversation on her speakerphone. We are about to hit some tunnels so hopefully that will sort her. Otherwise I’m going to say something. Huh, harrumph.
I still have a few things to do this pm that I need to gather the energy to sort. Meetings, meetings, meetings. Not much reely. Just need to tick a few things off the list.
The Frenchwoman has stopped but has been replaced by someone on the next table who is a wedding organiser. At least I can only hear her end of the conversation although that in itself is quite irritating. I’m also getting the hello? can you hear me? I’m on a train.
Vaughan Williams to the rescue. I happen to know she gets off at the borough of Pete but that is an hour away.
Sorry if I’m boring you as I periodically have a bit of a rant about other people’s loud train conversations. I suppose it is why some folks have private jets 🙂I’m not about to get a private jet. Nowhere to keep it for one thing. You can’t get anything in our garage as it is.
It has been snowing in Lincoln and the house will be cold. I may repair to the shed where, before leaving for the South, I just turned down the heating rather than switching it off.
Now listening to a Mozart Horn Concerto No 4 in Eb Major K495 I. Allegro maestoso. It isn’t really doing it for me. Let’s move on to Bizet. Carmen. Actually no, let’s not. Donna Summer Hot Stuff. Raise the tempo.
Kid opposite is still working his way through his bacon roll. Finished mine ages ago.
I’m glad to be leaving London behind. Full on big bad fast paced city. Not a place for the faint of heart, or the weak. That said, we are returning for five nights in June. The lure of the bright lights. Hoping to make our fortune, or spend it. Will find somewhere more convivial to stay than the Doubletree Angel.
The norther we get the greyer it seems to get. A smattering of snow still on the ground. I invented a new word there. Norther. Seems reasonable. I don’t really care whether it is liked by the grammar gestapo. Ve haff vays of making you spell.
Just to spoil a different, politically correct party I should at this point tell you that I identify as Tref. Not he/him/it or duck billed platypus or any other description you care to apply. Came up in conversation yesterday. Occasionally I am addressed as Sir but that is premature and I am quick to correct anyone that makes this mistake. My name is Tref. Glad that’s settled. Or Huw. My full name is Huw Trefor Davies. Call me what you like.
As the sleepy hamlet of Grantham gets nearer the landscape gets whiter. Horse drawn sleighs glide silently through the picture postcard streets of the ancient market town. Smoke billows from the chimneys of cottages lining the road on the way north.
The train has ground to a halt to the south of the station awaiting a signal change. Owen the Signal, on secondment from the Meirioneth and Llantysilio Railway Company, wakes up with a start from his untimetabled nap, gets up and pulls the lever. The train begins to move again.
We are thirty five minutes away from Lincoln and the train’s final destination. The spire of St Wulfram’s Church disappears to the rear.