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A few weeks ago, back when I was in my twenties, ah great days they were, my twenties...
But they’re gone now and here I am, a thirty something.
Forty doesn’t look so very far away now, not from where I’m standing.
And then it’ll be old age and death I expect.
Anyway, as I was saying, a few weeks ago (when I was in my twenties...no. No more tangents) I wrote a blog about snow induced train chaos.
Snow induced train chaos which trapped me on a train for almost three hours.
Something which caused me minimal bother, because I, unlike many of my fellow commuters, had a book with me, and was therefore able to meaningfully amuse myself for the duration.
Yes, many a smug Iphone user learned a harsh lesson that day.
Their little toy may be of interest for about 10 of your earth minutes, but once you’ve simulated stapling something, had an e-shave, and drunk a pretend drink of milk, you start to yearn for something, well, good.
Like a book.
And I had an enormous book.
Which is probably what stopped me from turning rogue, shouting at the guard and prising the doors open.
All of which brings me to my point.
Our local paper arrived on Friday and contained this story (click on the picture to maximise):
Now I was on that train, and don’t remember it being particularly post-apocalyptic. But as I said, I was busy reading my book.
The moral? Reading is good.