So, just about to leave The Asbestos Palace for the mothership when I glance across the living room and what's that, I spy, befouling my sofa. My sofa. Cat sick, that's what. What a fascinating colour you've made. I don't think it's anything ever seen in nature before.
So I clean all that up, which is as much fun as it sounds. I note I still have time to get the train, just. Arrive at the train station on time – just – so the driver, of course, waits for my finger to hover over the door button before beepity-beep locking them and then sitting there for another 30 seconds before pulling off. He could have let you on, says the platform chap, not very helpfully.
OK, I'll get the next train. CANCELLED says the board. Lack of train crew says the Southern Trains Robot Apologist. She's programmed not to laugh at our misfortune, but I know somewhere that she has a subroutine eternally dedicated to this.
Which is nice, so I can wait thirty minutes at the station listening to a soundtrack of holiday service 'alterations.' Don't plan on going anywhere by train this Christmas, basically.