Returnings.

Back home early Friday morning, late Friday night (too late to blip on the day) I'm picking up Charlie from Gloucester station. 

It's Drunk Friday, and the platform resounds to the sound of "I am a zider drinker" at high volume and in several keys, so I stand on the platform and wait for her train to arrive rather than sit in the van. One fellow sat on the near bench is passed out, his mate holding his own head in his hands. The cardboard policeman stares hard at all the revelry... this is the age of the train.

I can't help but compare our rail service with that of Amsterdam, where we've been this last week. Clean well-lit stations filled with technology and staff, serviced by fast, modern trains running tight schedules. And all costing a tiny percentage of what we would pay for our tatty version.