This is a precious day off. I have spent it in a Virgin train, which are my least favourite of the train companies, as it goes, mostly on account of the fact that their trains appear to have been designed by a deaf, dumb and blind moron.
Doors that close on you? No problem says Sir Branson from his platinum yacht. I can make that happen. How about air conditioning that never works? Easy. I'll throw in uncomfortable crammed in seats so you can really taste that fat man's halitosis every time he breathes out. I know you'd like that. How about unfeasibly massive toilets that we've thoughtfully taken up at least 10 seats to show we care about people in wheelchairs? But wheelchairs can't fit on on a train, you say? Won't stop us designing the toilet specifically for their use and throwing in the joy of a door that you can never quite be sure is locked and may well inexorably open one day, like a curtain revealing a prize winning performance to the commuters who are forced to huddle around its doors because there aren't enough seats.
We also guarantee no fresh air, shit coffee (if any at all because we often find we can't get to you down the far too narrow aisles filled with exhausted, grimy people with no seats wishing they were dead).
I should be in Spain. I'm not. So I've chosen to go see my lovely friends. Every step of the way has been fraught with irritations. Firstly the fucking York races meant that a taxi from my house to the station would have taken almost an hour. I walked the mile and half instead no realising that it was humid to the point that I was dripping in sweat by the time I lugged my bags there.
Train was delayed. Naturally. Why? Because it was struck by lightning. Yes. Struck by fucking lightning.
I am now over an hour and a half later than planned. I am covered in grime, I feel dirty, I'm desperate for the loo but can't get to it, I'm angry, hungry, thirsty and have the mother of all headaches. And the man who has just wedged his gut into the seat next to me, pinning me uncomfortably to the window, frankly, smells bad.
I keep getting surges of adrenaline and entertaining fantasies of standing up and streaking down the aisle screaming a primal scream of fucking rage.
But I can't get past smelly man. Luckily a baby has just started screaming behind me. So that'll take my mind off things, so.
So glad I'm not in Spain. Not being in Spain is awesome so far.