This weekend was J’s birthday so I went to Manchester to celebrate with him. It was a great little break until I had to be on a train at 6am this morning. It was an even better break and harsher jolt back to reality when I made the startling discovery that I have an essay due in one week today and a creative writing assignment the Friday after. I still do not understand how it’s week 11 already. Where on earth did the term go? I’m battling the consequent sensation of metaphorical bowel-movements with self-comfort that borders on denial.
On the plus side, the journey was rather beautiful: hurtling through a world covered in snow, both land and sky alike, only able to distinguish between the two when a tree haunted the horizon. And I only had to put up with a very minor delay as penance, which was in fact a blessing for me as it meant a couple less minutes freezing my digits off at Edinburgh.
All in all the return journey was much more pleasant than my journey down, despite beginning at such a ridiculous time in the morning. So the one toilet on the train didn’t flush, forcing me to pay 30p to wee at a station but at least I didn’t spend the bulk of the train-ride fighting nausea. Something about the vibrations on the Virgin train I got from Haymarket to Preston did not agree with my stomach. I’d write a letter of complaint about it but I have two assignments to do. If anyone else has had a similar experience and more time than me I’d be very grateful if you’d complain, for both our sakes, indeed for the sake of every poor person who ever has or will be subjected to that torture.
Sort it out Virgin. Your trains make me sick. Almost literally.