Truly fabulous things are trains. If I travel on one more than once a year however it's a 'red letter year' (apparently if you say it it's real, those are the sayings rules). As a student trains were part of my life and I had some fairly eventful journeys due to never understanding that if you are doing University work for Philosophy and Psychology as I was, and you make eye contact with any fellow traveller - they will tell you a) their philosophy of life & peace in your time or b) that they are a psychopath. Honest.
Yesterday on the train to Dublin I chose to read Virginia Woolf - which considering my previous experiences was a bold move. Mind you I'm no longer 18 and open-faced in a short skirt so that may have had something to do with the lack of wierdos too, it's the only reason I've found to bond with my wrinkles. Normal service will be resumed tomorrow - ie. I hate aging but that's another subject entirely.
I constantly travel in a car in lots of short bursts in my more and more parochial lifestyle. Huge excitement then when I packed (optimistically) 2 books for the journey. Oh the envy I felt of every commuter who can do this sort of thing routinely. Potentially 4 hours of reading - complete bliss.
So out came Mrs Dalloway which I began to devour. Blimey I thought - no wonder she was depressed. Anyone with that stream of consciousness going on in their head all the time must be a bit doolalley. It then occurred to me that most blogs are a bit like that - just not as well written.
Perhaps if I travelled by train more often I may have got to this grand age and have read more than about 3 non-fiction books in my life and might know 'stuff' - well, I know lots of 'stuff' but I mean useful stuff that would help me understand The Guardian.
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