A comparatively trouble free journey so far. Carriage no more than normally overcrowded. Speeding through Hendon we don't quite have the élan of W H Auden's Night Mail, but we do seem to be headed rather more inexorably towards St P than usual.
But this is no transport of delight. St P is where any vestigial trace of romance evaporates. If I could describe my vision of hell, it would have little to do with flames and forked tails. Hell is standing at the closed gates for an eternity, in a crowd of silent, sullen people, in a light, but interminable drizzle, while bombarded by empty exhortations to 'mind the traffic', 'walk on the pavement', etc.
We are the lost souls. This is the day of the living dead.
And it's Friday.
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