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Cor, what a miserable morning; grey, leaden skies, damp fog with a bone-numbing chill to the air. The sun is trying to break through now, but it’s still miserable out there.
I got into the office a few minutes late, the knock-on effect of getting the tube a few minutes late because lounging my nice warm pit listening to Sir Terry was far more attractive a proposition than getting up and coming to work. Still, the tube train arrived promptly as I got to the platform, there were loads of seats, and no odd disruptions, and so the journey itself was reassuringly uneventful, allowing me to doze for another half hour on the way in.
Now none of this would warrant a journal entry if it wasn’t for the fact that I noticed a time anomaly at Euston while I was changing on to the Victoria Line for the final leg of the journey in.
There was a chap on the platform wearing a brown-yellow, coarse-materialed three-piece suit. His tie had the smallest Windsor knot I’ve ever seen, and I wouldn’t be surprised if the shirt collar was heavily starched. I didn’t notice if he had a fob watch. Now this gentleman, who must have been around 30-35 years old, had his hair cut short and Brylcreemed back, and his moustache was waxed to fine points.
He looked a little lost, and I’m not surprised: there was no way his Spitfire could possibly be down there.
I got into the office a few minutes late, the knock-on effect of getting the tube a few minutes late because lounging my nice warm pit listening to Sir Terry was far more attractive a proposition than getting up and coming to work. Still, the tube train arrived promptly as I got to the platform, there were loads of seats, and no odd disruptions, and so the journey itself was reassuringly uneventful, allowing me to doze for another half hour on the way in.
Now none of this would warrant a journal entry if it wasn’t for the fact that I noticed a time anomaly at Euston while I was changing on to the Victoria Line for the final leg of the journey in.
There was a chap on the platform wearing a brown-yellow, coarse-materialed three-piece suit. His tie had the smallest Windsor knot I’ve ever seen, and I wouldn’t be surprised if the shirt collar was heavily starched. I didn’t notice if he had a fob watch. Now this gentleman, who must have been around 30-35 years old, had his hair cut short and Brylcreemed back, and his moustache was waxed to fine points.
He looked a little lost, and I’m not surprised: there was no way his Spitfire could possibly be down there.