Bit nervous of this 'blog malarkey at the moment. Not only do I feel a bit Nathan Barley for even having it, but I've also got no idea what to use it for or who will read it.
Oh well, let's stick something down shall we.
The train was late this morning. As if it wasn't bad enough being turfed out of bed at 6am and schlepping semi-conscious across London to a grimy St Pancras. as if the super-strong and harsh tea that seems to be the main benefit of First Class wasn't penance enough, the second leg of the journey contrived to be 70 minutes late.
What upsets me more about train delays is the way other passengers refuse to be philosophical about the whole affair. I quite relish a bit of quiet time for snoozing or staring at the sunny countryside or reading, but I find the waves of fury and frustration radiated by my fellow travellers quite unsettling to my inner tranquility.
As they swear under their breath and mutter angrily into their mobiles at the cab they mistakenly ordered (there are always 400 cabs outside the station with 400 bored cabbies, what's the point of booking one in advance) I want to jump up, grab them by the lapels and shout incoherently at them, my spit flecking their Mark's and Spencer's shirt and tie combo, until they sink into a stunned silence.
But I guess that would defeat the point.