The worst thing, apart from the other travelers—my goodness, the hoi polloi do get about these days,
and they eat and drink in public with very few inhibitions—was the incessant noise from the loudspeakers.
It seemed there was an announcement every five minutes from the mythical conductor,
imparting sagacious gems such as large items should be placed in the overhead luggage racks,
or that passengers should report any unattended items to the train crew as soon as possible.
I wondered at whom these pearls of wisdom were aimed; some passing extraterrestrial, perhaps,
or a yak herder from Ulan Bator who had trekked across the steppes, sailed the North Sea
and found himself on the Glasgow–Edinburgh service with literally no prior experience of mechanized transport to call upon?
The special occasion outfit was, I realized, somewhat outmoded now.
Lemon was not a color that suited me particularly well—fine for nightgowns, worn in the privacy of my bedroom,
but hardly suitable for a sophisticated gathering.
I’d go to the shops tomorrow and purchase something new; I’d be able to wear it again when I was out at a restaurant
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