So that Christmas nonsense is all over and the usual weary faces drag themselves to Temple Meads for the journey to London. The loading is a little lighter than usual as not all the schools are back, so Coach A has a nice roomy feel to it and the seat next to me unusually quiet. It’s also the local Labour Party’s Bristol rail action day which involves lots of middle aged people looking frozen and handing out leaflets. This isn’t a strategy that really works when everyone is wearing gloves and when I try to engage one of the men in a conversation around the failure of rail privatisation, I immediately regret it when I realise that he has absolutely no idea why he’s stood on Redland platform in the freezing gloom. Jeremy’s charisma has spread to the grassroots.
All is good though. No-one is eating their breakfast, it feels a little too soon for anyone to start to beat the hell out of the keyboard and it doesn’t appear as if anyone suffering from ‘flu has decided to martyr themselves. No-one is wearing a hilarious Santa hat.
Then. A huge noise. I have absolutely no idea what it is. A cross between a very large steam locomotive blowing off steam and a whale yawning. And again. I turn round slowly and just know that the culprit will have bushy eyebrows and a feral, slightly manic look.
All humanity is here and I feel comforted that normal service has resumed.