The Magnificent Severn

Tom's around today, and that means we're off on a trip via steam train to the very heart of darkness (or the Severn Valley; whichever's closer). Tom's wife strongly suspects that we're just going to use this excursion as a threadbare pretext for achieving a state of colossal inebriation, so in order to prove her thoroughly wrong, we decide to only drink beer in strict circumstances where we've both agreed that drinking beer is utterly necessary, and then duly referred that decision for ratification by The People's Council (current standing members: me and Tom). Thankfully, our decision to crack open the ales around midday is unanimously passed by all parties, and by the time we reach Bridgnorth, with the sun shining hard through the locomotive's steam, we heroically choose to boost Britain's ailing tourist trade by investigating the town's diverse taverns.

After discovering a toilet ostensibly constructed by and for hobbits at a bar & grill by the river, it's off up to The Black Boy to listen to some of the footy on the radio, then to The Old Castle (an establishment renowned for its horseburgers - no, really), and finally to The Railwayman's Arms, where ales and whiskies nestle alongside pre-Beeching memorabilia. Along the way we pass a policewoman in full body armour carrying two ice creams down the street with an unshakeable smile on her face (I can only presume her Kevlar is there in case an unexpected pedestrian collision causes a 99 Flake to drive forcefully into her otherwise vulnerable torso); and we get chance to watch the Severn going about its eternal business of carving a lengthy chunk from the Mercian countryside.

We board the train back to Kidderminster in a state of absolute sobriety, having no conversations whatsoever about the best strategy for shitting out of a train window without arousing suspicion, and not for a minute discussing the lamentable lack of brutal murders on steam trains compared to the average Agatha Christie novel. On our best behaviour, as always.