So, not home yet in the beautiful hills and vales of dearest Royston. No, not by a long shot. I’m in Manchester eaking out my frustrations into my blog. There is also poetry, it will not be finding it’s way onto my creative pages.
The journey started out badly when I had to get out at Preston to rescue a small person whos Mum had packed her and the suitcases on the train but managed to be the wrong side of the doors in Lancaster. The small person was reasonable, if somewhat tearful company and she liked Winnie-The-Pooh which was the only suitable book I had…the autobiography of Leslie Phillips has been a hugelygood read though as train people hve been shuttling me between bloody Manchester and Leeds all afternoon. I am now faced with taking the last train back to sunny Royston…I should already be there by now!
Still I am feeling more sanguine now. It helps that every train station has been playing my favourite seasonal song whenever I got out. There was alo a point when I thought that I had lost my inhalers and given my allergies to the place of my birth I was ready to call it a day then. All well now though!
‘The boys of the NYPD choir still singing Galway Bay,
Lets the bells ring out for Christmas Day…!’