Snow! The train is going through snow! Light white winter all around. We had snow on the island but not enough to worry; just enough to say "goodness, it's bright outside" and then "oh, that's why". My. That's quite a lot of snow, isn't it? Ho hum. I'm sure Scotrail is used to it.
It's rain again. There's a cloud slumped over a hill. It looks like it's thinking, "Oh my god, what was I drinking last night?" Damian says that last night I was talking to the dogs in my sleep. (sigh) My own room, my own bed. Tomorrow, tomorrow.
That wasn't so long, was it? It felt long at the time. I notice I've not said a lot about little Darren but honestly, kids of that age (9 months) don't really interest me that much. The journey back down was just awful, I think we've conclusively proved that the seats in a Sleeper are no more comfortable than the cabins, I was sat opposite some fucker who decided my leg room was his, honestly just too tired to fight, I read Maldoror and a Pelevin one of the young ones had leant me (yeah good cool) instead, directing all Maldoror's vehemence against him, stuffy and light-buzzing, smokers everywhere always worse when you're tired, Euston Station grimmer than 7.30am in a London station had any right to be, bags tearing our arms off (Damian's mother had given us boules for fuck's sake, and of course I'd bought whiskey) and finally, finally, the Oxford Tube --- warm, clean, comfortable ride home through a gold grey and blue dawn.
I drifted in and out of consciousness, the familiar scenery seemed clean and lovely, but strangely jumbled, as if we'd got back too early from being away and they didn't quite have everything back in its right place after cleaning yet.
Home looked perfect, though.