17 March 2016, 10 pm
In Cheltenham, we collect a platform-full of race goers and St Patrick’s Day hats. This lowers the specific gravity of the carriage considerably, which you might have thought would speed our progress towards Brizzle. Sadly not. The train battles on, through an alcoholic fug, like it is struggling across St Patrick’s own peat bog. The closer we get to Brizzle, the louder and more animated the hats become. “At-seat trolleyed” would be an appropriate term. This is worse than the midnight train to Swansea. My own sense of humour, last seen over a collapsing canapé in Yorkshire, does not extend to in-carriage entertainment and I suspect the revellers can tell this. I am mightily glad when I can grab my suitcase and leave.
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