On Saturday I went to Liverpool with my youngest, and the overhead lines went down at Crewe, but also there were crew shortages across the land, so between the homophones and my lifelong inability to start listening to a train announcement until halfway through, I cannot tell you at what point this journey became a five-train, four-hour odyssey. All I know is what’s happening on every train, in every part of the country. The 7.48am is a calm and ordered cohort of people who think they know where they’re going and will be there soon. And from 9.04am onwards, everyone’s drunk, all the way to everywhere.
Between Rugby and Birmingham New Street, there was an incredibly festive crowd going to the Horse of the Year show, squishing real fruit into cans of Pimm’s, because it was breakfast time, and also because it was funny. But what were the horses going to make of all this? Because they’re quite short on appreciation for ludic pranking, and famously easy to frighten.
