Day One

Y does not start off particularly well. I booked all my accommodation 6 months prior to the trip so that I wouldn’t have to worry about it close to the time and so that I can spread the cost a bit. 48 hours before I’m due to en-train, I get a call from my guest house informing me that they have a plumbing problem and they have to cancel my booking. I’m deeply suspicious about this (without any real justification) but have no choice and have to book somewhere else for nearly double the cost – and which doesn’t include breakfast, And that’s how I find myself at the Bates Guest House – but more of that later.

For once, I’ve done some actual pre-planning. A couple of weeks ago I booked my ticket for the Jorvik tour and have it printed out and ready to go. I also had a pop-up on my Facebook for a ghost tour of York – so that got booked as well. Feeling far more prepared than normal, I pop out to empty my bins and on the way back encounter Steve, the caretaker. With about 10 minutes to go before I have to leave, he starts an engaging conversation about (1) drug use up on the 5th floor; and (2) the haunting at his house. Normally I’d happily talk about both, but I have to get going and start dropping hints about needing to leave. Steve bravely ignores these until I stop hinting and go, grabbing my bag, locking up and leaving the damn Jorvik ticket behind. So much for planning.

It’s a long journey today and, bizarrely, I only have a seat reserved for the last leg of my journey. The weather is good for my trip though – amazingly sunny and forecast to stay like this for several days. The delaying tactics from Steve mean I only get to the station a few minutes early. COVID is still making things easy, though, and I snag a table to be shared between my rucksack and I.

Today’s book: the Pathfinder Guide to the Brecon Beacons and Glamorgan. I honestly don’t know why I read these – but that doesn’t stop me. As it isn’t all engrossing, I am half listening to the conversation at the table opposite. Although there are three of them, it is dominated by one person who is doing all the talking. He switches from talking about the dangers of swimming in the Thames to “in 2013 when we were white-water rafting on the Zambezi”. I begin to think that he’s a bit of a git. This is confirmed when he authoritatively tells his bored listeners that in places the Zambezi is 90m deep. This seems unlikely (annoyingly I can’t find anything online to confirm or deny this – but 90m? really?). He then goes on to discuss double inoculations. He had his second one yesterday, but of course had no side effects and has been out on his bicycle this morning. No doubt winning the yellow jersey. Definitely a git.

His monologue continues as he discusses (I use the term loosely) which university the largely silent person opposite him should go to. Apparently, the choice is between a City University or a Rural University. Nothing silly like scholastic standards need to be taken into account. He maintains a constant stream of drivel throughout the journey, finishing off with the rather odd “it’s not the only time Leeds has upset me”. What figure of a man is this that an entire city has decided to annoy him?

The arrival at Paddington is a relief. I wonder how his companions cope and as we leave the train I get a closer look at their dead eyes, indicating that they are either zombies or their mind has retreated into the area of the brain usually reserved for people in films trying to resist a hypnotist or alien parasite.

At Paddington it’s good to see everyone observing social distancing. At least, until they get close to a ticket barrier, in which case it apparently doesn’t count. Trying to keep a 2m distance means that some stupid bugger will just cut in front of you, so I plough through and head off to the Spiral Line. The journey is without issue – except for a repeating message stating “we are currently held at a red light”, which seems to be triggered about 1 second after the train stops. Every time it happens, we get moving before the message has finished. My loquacious friend from the train is in the same carriage and (unsurprisingly) he feels the need to comment. Mind you, I agree with him when he says that he’s bloody glad his car doesn’t do that.

I finally lose him at King’s Cross, and as I head off to the Edinburgh train I throw away the “Help Me!” note furtively passed to me by his companion. At least it’s not the hideous St Pancras International. I have to wait while the train is got ready and as I do there’s an ominous announcement about disruption to services this weekend. And, of course, the disruption is due to start on the day I’m coming back. I start to get nervous about my return journey, especially when they say that there will be no service at all south of Grantham. Hold on, I’ve booked a seat! I’ll have to ask when I get to York. Or, alternatively and far more likely, ignore it until Friday and sort it out on the day.

The train is reserved seating only. So, naturally, I compete with everyone else to get on the train as quickly as possible. I get on to find a sea of reserved markers waving above the seats – but, oddly, not on my seat. Then I look at the markers and find that they just say “Only sit on your reserved seat”. I settle in and am quickly joined by a group of rowdy blokes (judged to be so by their conversation) who loudly take their seats and promise to provide a delightful backdrop to the journey. As York is the first stop, I’m stuck with them. The first announcement on the train is in a broad Newcastle accent which prompts yells of “Speak English!!” from my hilarious fellow travellers. What laughter ensues. I only refrain from laughing as I fear that if I started, my head would fall off and my sides would split. Their vastly under-rated brand of comedy continues through every announcement, made worse when the announcer trips over himself and delivers something which is absolutely meaningless.

I am joined by someone who sits down opposite me. After having settled in, they check their ticket and have to move because they’re in the wrong seat. Mentally sneering at them, I then furtively check to make sure I haven’t made the same mistake. I then continue to judge them. The good thing is, I now have the table to myself again and it looks like that’ll be the case for the whole journey as we’re just about ready to move off. Just then a lady toting a ridiculously sized suitcase staggers down the aisle and spends an entertaining few minutes trying to force it behind the seat opposite me. It’s remarkably like the hippopotamus from Fantasia trying to get into a too-small tutu. She eventually succeeds, leaving it stuck out into the aisle and sits down. She then realises that she should be on the table opposite and has to speak to the man sat there – who is also in completely the wrong seat. I seem to be adrift on a sea of morons today.

Eventually we move off and I try to navigate the problem of getting a coffee. LNER is trialling a new refreshment delivery system (their description, not mine). All you have to do it point your phone camera at the QR code by your seat and it will open up a menu. Allegedly. I try it. It does bugger all. It also says you can order via their website. Turns out you can browse the menu – you just can’t order anything.

After several tries, I get the QR code to work – it turns out you have to present the phone casually, so the QR code doesn’t realise you’re going for it. It’s an odd version of camera-shyness. It takes a cripplingly long time to load. I then try and order something from the piffling selection available. Finally settling on coffee and a bacon roll (which is mostly Keto), I proceed to the check out option. At which time, it requires me to sign up to LNER. I go through the process (typing in a password is always fun on a moving train), and then find it won’t let me log on. I decide to wait until York as clearly this bloody thing isn’t working.

Except that everyone else seems to be getting it to work just fine.

I carry on trying as the woman who is sat opposite me decides to have an insanely loud conversation on her phone – ignoring the fact that this is a quiet carriage. Apparently she nearly missed the train (what a loss that would have been). By the time she finally shuts the fuck up, I’ve managed to navigate the arcane and abstruse ordering system and my breakfast is on its’ way. She then starts another bloody call. Does the quiet carriage mean nothing? Oh, damn, we’re not in a quiet carriage – apparently this is a quieter carriage. Now what the hell does that mean?

While I’m still grumbling about her (but, naturally, not actually asking her to shut up) my bacon roll and coffee arrives. The coffee actually isn’t bad. The bacon roll has all the flavour and texture that I would expect from a microwaved bacon roll – including being lethally hot. It all fills a hole and fulfils its’ main purpose: giving me an excuse to take my mask off. I then forget to put it back on, and once I realise, I guiltily check to see if anyone had noticed. No-one challenges me about it (not even Fog-Horn Woman opposite) and we get to York station without incident.

I head straight off to The Beckett Guest House (http://thebeckettguesthouse.york-hotels.net/en/) to dump my rucksack. I’ve received instructions on how to get in and where my keys will be, so I tramp off towards it. I’m not that impressed by the area – and for some reason the theme music to Coronation Street keeps running through my mind.

Inside, the place is apparently empty. The staircase has no natural light and they have papered it with something that Norman Bates’ mum would have been proud of. I wouldn’t be surprised to see stuffed animals everywhere as I head up to my room.

What makes it worse is that there’s a shared bathroom – taking a shower is going to be a really nerve-wracking experience! I dump my stuff and get the hell out of the Bates Guest House – time to explore York.

Turns out that I’m about half a mile from the centre of York, so I head in towards the bloody great church that dominates the city. It’s an interesting wander in, with lots of places to look at, including the old City walls.

I fend off a very insistent woman who wants me to take a bus tour outside the York Art Gallery and stubbornly head away into the surrounding streets, where there is still plenty to see.

There are a lot of people around – an uncomfortable amount, really – and one place has a huge queue.

Yup, sod history, sod culture, what we’ll queue up for is a big slice of cake. Betty’s Cafe Tea Rooms is (apparently) an institution and (according to their web site) “no visit to York is complete without a visit“. We’ll see about that. But my main mission isn’t to see the local sites – I’m in search of lunch. I eventually find myself at a little pub called the Corner Pin, which has an impressively odd range of pizzas available.

The staff here are very keen and although they aren’t officially serving food for another half an hour, they take my order for a Solar Goat Pig pizza – and damn good it is when it arrives!

After lunch, time to do what everyone has to do when they visit York, and I head up to the Minster (previously referred to by the alternative appellation of “bloody great church”). It’s is huge and defies my ability to successfully get it into a photo, except by standing at a great, great distance.

Clearly I need to go around it to collect my set of Cathedrals of England (yes, it’s a Minster, no I haven’t been to most of them. Look it was a joke, just go with it.) And I’m not allowed to. It turns out that you have to book in advance. Outside are a couple of guides and a policeman who walks off just after I get there. Across his back is blazoned “York Minster Police”. Wait – seriously? I’m busy trying to book tickets online, so he disappears before I can speak to him. I have a good wander around the Minster’s exterior before taking the long route back to the Bates Guest House.

On the way back, I pass an advert for a new (or a very old) diet fad.

Well, who could resist?

It’s pretty warm, so I stretch out at the Bates GH and grab a breather. At around 18:30, I head back into York to try and find somewhere to eat. As I leave, I can hear voices from behind the door marked Private (“Yes, mother, of course I’ll deal with the man in number 4“) but still haven’t met any of the Bates family. A quick trip to find somewhere to eat takes nearly an hour. Everywhere is packed and I’m still not that keen on going into a crowded restaurant. Eventually, practicality takes over and I end up in the Royal Oak nursing a pint of Orchard Thieves cider. They’re crowded here too – I’m sat in the front bar where I’m the only person eating and I’m being stared at by the regulars who are clearly offended at someone coming into “their” area. I order a cod and chips, which takes nearly an hour to arrive. It’s worth the wait though is it’s approximately half the size of a whale and really tasty. I only manage about half of it.

Dinner is accompanied by “Cakes and Ale” by W Somerset Maugham. Of course, it’s possible that the locals are staring at me because I’m reading a book and they’re not used to associating with dangerous intellectuals.

If you haven’t read any Maugham, I’d recommend you try some. Very witty, and a really good writer. Cakes and Ale includes the following devastating comment about Americans when he’s discussing making small talk:

The Americans, who are the most efficient people on the earth have carried this device to such a height of perfection and have invented so wide a range of pithy and hackneyed phrases that they can carry on an amusing and animated conversation without giving a moment’s reflection to what they are saying and so leave their minds free to consider the more important matters of big business and fornication.

On reflection, the reason the locals are staring at me might be more to do with the fact that lines like this one are making me chuckle out loud.

Their attention gets taken off me when three very serious folk who display all the characteristics of being members of CAMRA enter the bar. The traditional whiskers are absent (due to youth, I suspect) but the elbow patches are there (so rarely seen on a t-shirt), as is the serious way they have to debate which beer to try and whether to have a pint or a half. The locals have nipped outside for a fag, so the CAMRA guys decide to sit in their seats. I hope for fireworks but am disappointed as the drunkest of the locals has gone home and the rest look at CAMRA and sit at the bar instead. CAMRA finish their halves and leave – presumably to exert their dubious charisma on another establishment.

The Whale and Chips having defeated me, I take a wander through the (finally) quiet streets and wend my way back to the Bates Guest House. Tomorrow I have Jorvik, the Minster and a Ghost Walk. So far York has been pretty good – but I barricade my door in case Norman is prowling and settle down for the night.

Day Two

I sleep pretty well despite the snorer next door and the blind constantly banging against the window (I refer to the device to keep the light out rather than a person with a visual impairment). My barricade is undisturbed. Maybe the Bates Guest House isn’t too bad after all. There’s a lot to do today and my weather app has thunderstorms predicted.

The first mission of the day is the hunt for breakfast. I head into town and find that York does not wake up as early as I do. It’s 08:00 and the streets are largely empty – which is nice. I find a café with exactly what I want: a full Yorkshire breakfast including black pudding. But they don’t open until 09:00. I end up at a Cafe Nero with an Americano and a cheese and ham toastie. On the way here I’ve watched the bin men slaloming their way down a narrow street as other people have parked inconveniently – apparently to make the lorries’ drive more challenging. Their job is made even more trickier by several pedestrians who just amble down the middle of the road, or step out in front of the lorry. Luckily the driver can see the funny side.

My decidedly un-Yorkshire breakfast over, I head out for an explore. I check in on Jorvik – I want to make sure I know where I’m going later – and have an extended walk around the tiny city centre streets. Good grief, what a shambles!

Just down from here, I find the bizarrest street name I’ve come across so far.

Luckily, there’s a plaque nearby which explains it.

Well, thank goodness they changed it, or it would make no sense!

I head out to Clifford’s Tower, and find it’s currently being renovated. They provide a photo of what it should like, so at least I know what I’m missing.

I’ve spotted several parts of the City Walls as I wander around, so now I decide to walk around them. They have very sensibly decided to make them one way to encourage social distancing and at each entry point, the entrances are very well marked. The one way system is a good idea as the rampart is around 6ft wide and the inside is usually unfenced with a pretty decent drop in places.

It’s quite a surreal experience walking along it and peering into the upstairs rooms of the houses that cluster quite close to the wall in places. And then, of course, I start meeting the people who don’t understand the concept of “one way”. Well, actually they do – because most mumble some form of apology – usually a variation of “I always walk this way”.

My favourite is when I’m descending some steps to exit the walk and coming up is a mother and a toddler. The toddler grabs her mums hand and says “Isn’t this one way, mummy?” “Mummy” nods distractedly, smiles weakly at me and leads her daughter off in the wrong direction. LISTEN TO YOUR DAUGHTER, WOMAN!!

Having had my fill of Walking with Pillocks, I head off for my appointment with the Vikings at Jorvik. On the way, I stop in at another Cafe Nero (I swear, I never usually use them but there are about a thousand in York). This time is for coffee and carrot cake – and an encounter with a woman who thinks that “2 metres” is the same as “6 inches”. She must be hysterical when parking a car. And probably very difficult to impress in bed.

Jorvik is an interesting experience. Having already checked with the entertainingly dressed staff, I’ve confirmed that the email ticket on my phone is sufficient to get in, I’m pretty relaxed as I wait in the queue.

The main event is a 15 minute ride where you are taken through a Viking village with Sean Bean narrating (or someone who sounds just like him). This must be one of the few productions he doesn’t die in.

At the end is a little museum with artefacts that have been found locally (mainly in Coppergate). The people hanging around in period costume and I have a really good chat about where the Vikings would have got the clay to make their pottery from. Very interesting. Then of course, we come to the prize exhibit:

If you think it looks like a sock, you’re absolutely correct. And it’s a famous sock!

But you know what I noticed: there’s only one! Somewhere, probably behind a Viking washing-machine equivalent, I reckon the other one lurks awaiting discovery.

I admit to being a little disappointed by the Jorvik museum. It’s actually very small and the whole thing takes less than an hour. It’s very well done, very interesting, but needs to be a bit bigger. So get digging, you archaeological types! I want that other sock found! They do provide one necessary thing though – a gift shop, where I purchase the inevitable bookmark.

I’ve got nearly 2 hours before my York Minster tour, so I continue to tramp around York finding an unsubtle clock and very uncomfortable sheep.

My feet are aching and my planar fasciitis is really giving me gyp, so I try to find somewhere to get some lunch. I eventually settle down in the back garden of the Keystones, a pub nestled behind the city wall. I am offered a mango cider but spurn it and plump for a pint of Thatchers Gold. I then decide to try and sort out my phone data with O2 – who are not playing ball. If anyone from the pub actually asked me, I’d probably have ordered some food. But no-one does, so I sit back and enjoy my pint.

I head for York Minster and my scheduled 14:00 tour. As we queue up outside, we get told that there’s a wedding taking place so we won’t be able to access all the Minster. Not a problem as it’s big. Very big, in fact.

Social distancing isn’t a problem in the nave, but we have to wait to get into the Quire as the bridal party is passing. Once the bride is ensconced, we can proceed and the very small wedding party gets gawped at by a load of complete strangers. There’s a sign up saying that we shouldn’t take photos of them – so that’s OK then. I have to admit, that if I’d paid for a wedding in the Minster (and I bet you pay through the nose), I’d want more privacy than that. But they seem happy and as I wander through the Quire, I can hear two people singing an a capella version of “God Only Knows” by the Beach Boys. As a result, my exploration is hampered by a lot of giggling and an attempt to muffle my laughter with my backpack. I’m in this amazing edifice and behind me an alto and a tenor are maiming God Only Knows accompanied by a tinny piano. Clearly there’s more than one crucifixion going on here.

I don’t linger. Something about the Minster doesn’t sit easily with me. Is it impressive? Yes. Is it big? Yes. Is it expensive to upkeep? Yes – £23,000 a day. And I know that because there are signs everywhere begging for money – and I mean everywhere. It seems I can’t turn around without seeing another sign asking for a donation. Exiting via a gift shop is the last straw – though it doesn’t stop me buying a bookmark. I have no issues with places asking for donations – but I’ve already paid £12 for the privilege of walking around. I also find it a little hypocritical that one of the most wealthy organisations in the country feels the need to bang on about their need for money. Getting off my soapbox and packing it away, I head out and see if I can track down the policeman I saw yesterday.

And I can. He’s stood out the front, so I show him my warrant card and have a quick chat with him. I primarily want to know if he’s really York Minster Police – and he is. I thought he might be on secondment from North Yorkshire Police, but apparently YMP is a separate police force. He reckons it is the first police force created by Robert Peel (I checked – he may actually be correct as YMP and the Metropolitan Police service were both started in 1829). He asks me where I work and his eyes widen when I say that I work in Slough. It turns out that he went down to London 12 years ago and he would never want to work “somewhere like that”.

After thanking him, I head back to the Bates Guest House. My left foot is really hurting and I wish there was some way to soak it. I briefly consider standing on a chair and soaking it in the hand basin, but I sense what disaster might happen if I tried that. I dread to think what Norman would do if I broke my leg. On the way back I grab some cheese and salami. I’ll “picnic” this evening rather than eating out. I decide to grab a nap before the ghost walk at 21:15.

At 21:00, I’m stood in The Shambles waiting for our tour guide. I was uncertain where to wait, so it was good to see other people stood around looking uncertain. I lurked near them and then saw they were stood blocking the sign telling us where to wait.

Our tour guide is a cadaverous individual who walks up carrying a set of steps and what looks like a medical bag. He has a wicked sense of humour, is clearly well practised at doing these and is highly entertaining.

This particular ghost walk is run by The Ghost Hunt of York (http://www.ghosthunt.co.uk/) and is hugely enjoyable. The guide takes you to four locations and at each one tells you a scary story. It is as funny as it is scary. I’d heard one of them before, so at least he’s done his research (or read the same book I did). His warning at the start is prophetic: “the worst thing you have to fear is getting mown down by a Deliveroo cyclist”. It is the main risk of the tour and on at least two occasions I have to get out of the way of a manic cyclist intent on his delivery. Overall, it’s good fun and a great end to what became a very long day.

By the time I trudge back to the Bates Guest House, my step counter reckons I’ve walked 11.6 miles and my feet are feeling it. I settle down to update my notes with a cup of coffee, accompanied by the sound of a man standing in the middle of the street and repeatedly yelling “VERA!” at top of his voice. I hope he stops soon.

Day Three

Luckily he did. I’m woken by my phone pinging as it wants to tell me that it’s not charging as there is “fluid in the Ligntning conductor” and that it will need to be disconnected in order to dry out. I check I’m not still asleep, and the message is still there. This doesn’t bode well. It’s a long journey home today. None of my trains are LNER and due to the line closures it’s a 4 1/2 hour journey back to Slough.

Cakes and Ale has been finished and I’m now on “The Enemy Stars” by Poul Anderson.

My plan today is to stay at the Bates Guest House until gone 09:00, then have a leisurely stroll and breakfast before heading for the 11:30 train. That plan lasts until 08:30 when I head out, never having seen Norman or Mrs Bates. (I should point out that the Becketts are probably perfectly nice people who do not in any way resemble the Bates family ……. or do they?)

I head back into town, my progress delayed by someone taking photographs of an emaciated child in a tutu who is doing ballet poses. They are blissfully unaware of the fact that they’re completely blocking the pavement. It does mean that I get the opportunity to snap one last picture of the Minster.

A bit of it, anyway 🙂

I decide to give Betty’s Cafe Tea Room one last try, but there’s already a queue and I can’t be bothered to wait for 15 minutes for them to open. I end up at bloody Cafe Nero again and have a leisurely Americano and a bacon ciabatta (presumably because that’s classier than a bacon roll). The sachet of HP sauce it comes with takes the edge off its’ classy attitude. Also, it’s been overcooked to the point that the ciabatta turns into little shards in my mouth.

After my disappointing breakfast, I take one last stroll by the River Ouse.

Even at a leisurely pace, I get to the station with an hour and a half to spare. I then play Hunt the Toilet, followed by Hunt the Seat. The station has a decided lack of both. I decide to go into a Costa Coffee, but then realise it has no seating. Eventually, I find a seat and settle down to finish The Enemy Stars, though I am distracted by the site of a man carrying his entire worldly belongings in a backpack.

I finish The Enemy Stars and move on to Fateless by Imre Kertesz. This is a story about a teenager in Auschwitz – promises to be a laugh riot. I still have over an hour to wait and spend some time watching 2 British Transport Police officers who are stood in the middle of the concourse. It would appear that their job currently comprises nothing more than telling people to put their masks on. I’m sure there’s much more to it than that.

Maybe.

In a staggering display of synchronicity, my Crosscountry train arrives just as the protagonist in the book is boarding the train to Auschwitz. My train seems slightly better – less people to a carriage if nothing else. The announcer is unnaturally jolly. Apart from everything else he does, he is in charge of the trolley. Which is a static trolley. He then proceeds to list everything on the trolley. If you think this sounds exciting, you need to get out more.

We are all exhorted to sit in our reserved seats and, if not, to make sure that we sit in the window seats. A ticket inspector then comes through the carriage and gets the horde of people who ignored the announcement to move. All except the lady opposite me who is allowed to retain her aisle seat. Maybe she has some kind of morbid allergy to windows.

This train goes to Sheffield and I change there. There is little chance to explore the delights of this earthly paradise as the connection to St Pancras International is waiting. I don’t have a reserved seat on this one, but luck means that I’m the first one on the carriage, so I manage to grab a seat.

The announcer on this train is far less friendly. This time we’re told to make sure we’re on the right train as Revenue Protection Officers are on the train and will issue penalty fares. Do they mean ticket inspectors? This journey feels more and more like the one in Fateless with every stage.

In the seat opposite me, a woman is entertaining her child with something on her phone. No, wait, she’s ignoring her child while playing on her phone. That’s the same thing, surely? It’s OK though, because he’s got his own phone to play with. That’s all a 10 year old needs!

The Revenue Protection Officer comes round before we leave the station. She’s a substantially built woman and it would be very easy to imagine her bullying prisoners. She demonstrates this by ejecting someone from the train as they didn’t have a valid ticket and she berates him until he shuffles off to buy one. Welcome to Birchenau Trains.

The careful mother gets off at Derby and barely remembers to take her child with her. I say “take” – she walks ahead of him with her bag while he struggles along with a bag almost as big as himself. She is still looking at her phone and I haven’t heard her exchange one word with him.

We then get an announcement stating that the train is over-subscribed, so no social distancing is possible. We are told that if we’re not comfortable with this, that is our problem as we have chosen to travel and if we don’t like putting ourselves at risk, we should change at Leicester. I’m gob-smacked by this. So much for companies being socially responsible. This is utter fuckwittery. (Which might not be a word, but really should be.) The company in question is East Midlands Railway Services and they clearly do not give a shit about their customers.

The rest of the journey is in a very crowded carriage. Just up from me are sat a couple of female students. A male student is trying to chat one of them up and I reproduce some of his dialogue for your edification:

“Which one’s English Lit?”

“Oh, it’s like poetry and stuff?”

“You mean like Shakespeare?”

I have to give him credit for having heard of Shakespeare. He then came up with his best line yet:

“What’s then point of that then?”

A sentiment guaranteed to melt the heart of any English Literature student. Though, to be fair, I’ve been asked the same. He then proceeds to boast about the fact that he has seven points on his driving license and justifies it as follows:

“It’s how you learn, isn’t it?”

He is, as originally suspected, a knob and I’m sure he’ll be a parliamentary candidate at the next election.

I have to admire the restraint shown by the two female students. He left the train at Leicester, at which point both of them burst out laughing. I hear one say “I can’t believe he didn’t know what English Lit was” and it appears they think him as much of a fool as I did. Maybe there is still hope for the world!

The weather has been steadily getting worse and the sun in Yorkshire is replaced by pelting rain as we approach St Pancras International. I noticed that my ticket had allowed nearly an hour to get from there to Paddington – which seemed excessive. Sadly not, as I was about to find out. For a start, there was the trek through the Halls of Mammon at St Pancras International – a suitable final visit for what will be my last trip through London as part of this ridiculous odyssey.

Then onto the Spiral Line – where there are no trains running! It would appear that London Underground has a huge staff shortage and (for reasons known only to themselves) they have chose to cancel all of the trains on what used to be the most well used line. As a result, I manage to get to Paddington with about 5 minutes to spare. On the way, everyone’s fears about lack of social distancing on the Tube are met. Clearly no-one gives a fuck.

I get to my train and stagger on to find at one end a family with 6-8 completely uncontrolled children is completely blocking access to the rest of the carriage. With a muttered “fucking kids, that’s all I need”, I head past. When I get to a seat and look back, I realise that it was quite a loud mutter as mum and dad are giving me evils down the carriage. Look, I understand that children can be loud and need to express themselves. But I also think that parents need to understand that they are not the only people in the fucking world and they should at least make an attempt to keep their noxious spawn under control. If I’d acted like that as a kid, my parents would have been mortified. Mind you, they were pretty shitty to me (looking back on it) so maybe I’d best not make that comparison.

The above is pretty much word-for-word what I wrote on the day, which gives you an idea of my mood by the time I got home. Having left York in good spirits, I’m wet, cold and tired when I get home . Maybe it’s the happy-go-lucky antics of Fateless (which, by the way, is a fascinating book) or maybe it’s the thought that there’s only one letter to go and I’m going to miss doing this.