This evening I find myself sat on Warminster railway station, being advised to stay behind a non-existent yellow line, in between a stream of announcements advising of delays to basically everything.
As a consequence of Storm Doris blowing some twigs onto the line somewhere in deepest Hampshire I have an hour to kill.
This is the kind of place where the man next to me on the bench is having a heated phone conversation in which he insists the judge was out to get him and has insisted on a different judge next time.
I decide I need fish and chips.
There is one chip shop (The Creme de la Cod, that’s witty. Well it was in 1993). It’s the sort of place that has clients like Ethel who has a bag of small chips every night with the comment ‘ooh young man, one night I’ll have your sausage with it’.
It’s the sort of place that was a one-horse town until someone stole it.
It’s the sort of place where one of the pubs runs a night club evening every evening and tonight the usual two clients are sat looking glum with their bottles of Bud. Still the lousy dance music bangs out and suspect somewhere in the depths is a DJ plying his lonesome trade.
It’s the sort of place that, despite feeling like a sleepy Marie Celeste, still has a Wetherspoons full to gunwales of happy people scoffing mixed grills.
I get back to the station at 2015. The nice lady on the tannoy advises me that opportunistic theives operate at this station and that snow-boarding is prohibited. I’m advised helpfully that the next fastest train is at 2001.
Eventually my train is arrives and I’m mightily glad that it’s running specially non-stop to Bristol. I like to think this is specially for me.