Liverpool

It was a long way to go for a 40 minute meeting (as you know, I don't call them "interviews") yesterday.

Not only was it a long way, it was a long time as well: over 12 hours of travelling.

A month ago, when I went from London to Hull, the train journey went surprisingly well. So well, in fact, that none of my contingency time was used up. So I arrived in Hull over an hour early.

This time was different. Travelling up from the south coast of England every train was late. In fact, one broke down before I got to London.

I reached Euston station (a mainline London station close to Kings Cross) just before 12-noon. This was a week after the bomb outrages and there was a two-minute silence at mid-day. This was observed throughout the station by everyone. Including police (of whom there were many) and railway staff. Which I felt was a bit ironic as it meant absolutely no-one was looking out for unattended bags or other strange behaviours.

To get to Euston I had to use the underground. I felt it my duty to be vigilant. But there was an extreme-hottie sitting opposite me and, to be honest, a civil war could have broken out and I wouldn't have noticed.

From Euston I travelled by a fast inter-city train to Liverpool. Whilst on it I read a periodical I'd chosen for the journey. I think it's good to pick up different points of views and to read things with which you don't necessarily agree. It's also good to choose something that the newsagents actually have.

For this journey I'd chosen (using the above guidelines) The Spectator. And very good it was too - in its way. Fortunately, before I'd reached Liverpool I suddenly remembered that there had recently been some hoohah or something over that magazine and the city of Liverpool. And what's more, this edition had articles about Muslim terrorists (The Spectator, bless it, doesn't totally follow the politically correct line that the recent bombers were terrorists who just happened all to be Muslim). And as we now know, the bombers were Northerners! (Although it only seems to be me who has identified this glaringly obvious fact).

I carefully hid the magazine in my bag.

As everything in this journey was running late I phoned the agency, who'd arranged the interview, to warn them. Fortunately they got a message through to my interviewer. When I met him he was very nice about it.

The interview seemed to go well. And then I tried to repeat the process in reverse.

By the way, I didn't get to see much of Liverpool. Last week I spent a few hours in Brighton. Yesterday I spent an hour in total in transit through London. And I spent a few hours in Liverpool. This gives me the objectivity to say that I think girls in London are the nicest looking. They don't seem to have the skin diseases that afflicts, it seems, almost every girl in Brighton. Nor do they seem to be almost falling over because of the weight of their makeup, as in Liverpool. And there's none of the mutant/alien DNA nonsense that you get down in Somerset.

The train from Liverpool to London was nearly an hour late. And I think the train from London to Sussex was a bit late as well.