Gammon Ephgrave.

I'm sitting on the late-running 14:23 from King's Cross to Hitchin, in a carriage that's so hot, I'm liable to return to Hertfordshire slow-cooked. Call me Gammon Ephgrave.

At least the gradual nature of my baking will result in a fuller flavour. With any luck, I'll be served onto the hot plate of my local Toby Carvery before the day is through.

(With a surname like that, Toby was destined to work in the roast dinner business.)

While my journey home may be blistering, at least it's less eventful than the journey in. All the trains were cancelled between Hitchin and London, due to an overhead power failure. This meant an unscheduled trip to Luton, to catch the train from there.

Frankly, Luton terrifies me. Its stabby undercurrent encircles you from all sides. I spent the entire time watching my back (which gave me a very stiff neck). 

I'm not sure what would be worse: being stabbed on the way in, or cooked on the way back. 

Stick a fork in me: I'm done.

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