Heading south to see the stones that roll feeling as if some creativity would be appropriate. I suspect that the honest occupants of coach M are unlikely to appreciate my singing out loud so the quiet tap tap of the acquiescent keyboard is the right thing to do.
Tap tap, southerly speeding train, glides across cold-flooded arable countryside, the deceiving sunshine smiles the sinister smile of the gangster that has just put a bullet in your leg and bids you good day before departing.
The red bricks of Grantham and grey industrial streets back on to the railway line, straight as far as the eye can see. The sparse platform empties into the carriage whose doors open and suck in new passengers.
In Cornwall severe flooding hits Newlyn and ducks are rescued. The usual incapacity to cope with weather that has existed since the dawn of wattle and daub and town planners that fall to the hypnotic trance of the brown envelope.
On we fly, on and on and quickly my mind races across a continental plain of endless field after endless field, an occasional homestead remote and isolated, scrubbed clean by a relentless, it seems, wind.
Two men conduct an almost whispered conversation that I can still hear but care not to listen to. The car park at Peterborough has plenty of spaces on a Sunday afternoon and my sparkling water fizzles.
On another sub-continent the England and Wales cricket team take to their satisfied beds after a day’s demolition work on the opposition. Life continues and as we continue our journey the bricks grow less distinctive – plastic fronted seventies slingbacks, bland boxes.
In the distance windmills generate, their slim contemporary design a catalyst for emotion.
Factory units. Giant haystacks. Solar cells. Onboard staff are working overtime and I wonder whatever became of Enoch Runsewe whom I only ever saw once. The sky clouds over as we approach the great metropolis.
I ensure that I have my personal belongings with me as I leave the train and head for the taxi rank.