On journeying up North.

It's 11.43 am and I'm walking quite slowly, absorbing my surroundings. I'm feeling nervous, and slightly cautious about what I'm to do. It could so easily go horribly wrong, and my normal confidence is shot. I'm never like this, but I've been turned into a jelly-wreck. Stupid metaphors. I'm not rushing because I'm almost certain that I have nailed the schedule, and everything should fall into place as I arrive at the station. Unfortunately, it would seem as though the fates have a different plan in store for me. The automatic ticket delivery system is basically fucked, and the manual 'buy-me-please' stand is closed because the station has been undergoing renovations for months - there is no end in sight as far as I can see. I speak to a lone man standing pensively by the platform; his neon-jacket seems to indicate that perhaps he'll know what I should do. He recommends that I run over to the train which is at the station already and get the ticket on-board. If I miss that train then my entire journey will fall apart. I have around 25 seconds to run up the stairs, across the line, and down the other side. With my heavy carry-all. I make it because the conductor is at the door abeam to the exit of the bridge -- luck favours the running, evidently. She is kind enough to hold the door for me in response to my girlish screams of "No, me too, pleaseeeee". She then spends the next 20 minutes helping me plan my journey more thoroughly, and giving me my ticket (which was a very reasonable price I thought). She was kind, and helpful. Good woman. There has been some service disruption because of someone trespassing on the line. I was lucky to catch this train; all I need to do is add an extra change at a station nearby to catch my connection. I achieve this and am on-board my expected train by the expected time. This is a nice train: it is replete with entertainment, buffet-service, comfortable seats, and wildly panoramic windows. In short it is infinitely more pleasing than any train I would ever catch to go home. As I sit down I start to read, and I read my entire book in around an hour and a half. This means that I have around 2 hours to kill before my train pulls in at its final destination. I need the toilet.

Then I stare out of the window, and my mood dips horrendously. I've got a nervous-tension in my shoulder-blades, and my stomach is doing backflips. I'm gazing longingly out onto the bleak, wild expanse of rural England; I can see sheep standing close together trying to suck the warmth from each other. Over the undulating green of the countryside there is a dipping field, covered in small mounds; on the shaded side there is a smattering of snow, and on the side facing the sun there is none. It creates a spellbinding sight; hypnotic in its irregularity and lack of uniformity paints a stark contrast to the uniform modernity within the carriage. I stare bleakly at an ever-changing landscape, scattered with formidable houses - there seems to be a monolith in the background - and past trees towering above the sky; in the foreground I see a river running stoically alongside the train-cart, and it seems to burble incoherently at me the nothings I dread to hear. Inside my standard bubble I feel utterly alone and terrified, yet I am confident and there is people everywhere. "Please do not sit on the stop blocks". It is laughable.

I arrive. Safe. I'll let you know what I got up to when I'm less ill-feeling.