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Strangers on a Train

Only minor delays after the previous days' elemental havoc, but a major hiccup when it seemed that nobody knew how to start the train. Much running about on the platform, except for a stray hobo who seemed to fall onto the train. "Obviously lost," I thought. Sadly not! The whole dining carriage was FULL of drunken hobos, other than a rather attractive American lady who squatted my table while I was saying my sad goodbyes. I'd parked my baggage in the berth, a cabin so insanely small that it can only have been modelled on a Japanese hotel room. For drunks. I had a whisky myself and crashed for a few hours, to be awoken by a rudely jolly woman bearing tea and a rather dry danish pastry. Perfect.
Buying my ticket at Euston for the underground into the West End was a hoot. The ticket booth was manned by an extremely camp walrus wannabee, sporting a Poirotesque moustache and a liberal sprinkling of facial piercings. He surveyed the contents of my wallet as I paid him. "You're off the sleeper from Glasgow? My God - you're the first person who's bought a ticket off of me who's not crawled up to the counter and breathed fumes through the grille. You should see the state of some of the people who get off that train." We both giggled, and the queue behind me stirred impatiently.
"You should see the state of them when they get on it" I said, picked up my ticket, and went on my way, rejoicing.


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