The Long Dark Tea-Time of the Soul.
Douglas Adams wrote that; and last night, after an ill-judged late-night visit to a number of Soho-based hostelries, I lived it. Or, at least, the Long Dark Witching Hour of the Soul. Make that ‘hours’, pleural.
Racing for the last train to Royston (cue the Monkeys) I caught the coat-tails of the 00:07 to Cambridge out of Kings Cross. Slumping gratefully into my seat I noticed a number of revellers in repose. Alerted of the dangers of slumbering past one’s appointed stop I (thought I) set my alarm at the correct time so as not to miss mine. Oh, poor misguided, slightly sozzled optimist! I awoke with a start as the train screeched into yet another hitherto unknown station; Foxton. Suprised and alarmed I consulted the wall-mounted station map – aaargh! Two stops past Royston and heading for Cambridge with no guarantee of a functioning taxi service. I leapt from my seat and dove for the doors, alighting in an unseemly heap on a desolate, windswept slab of concrete in the middle of gthe blackest hole in the history of black holes. Oh for the HHGTTG ... what was that on the cover? Don't Panic ...
Wandering off the platform I soon realised I was in close proximity to rock-all. Taxis were out of the question, and my iPhone-mounted SatNav gleefully informed me (in a particularly glowing manner given the inky backdrop) that I had 6.1 miles of A10 to navigate to reach my destination. The irony of being in a jam in a town called Foxton was not lost on me; nor was the realisation that I really am way too old for this crap.
Abandoning my instinct to knock out the miles in the usual fashion, clad as I was in tan business suit and rock-hard, thin-soled wingtips, I strode out to the east under a fabulous canopy of heavenly twinkles and swirls. To the west a planet-hugging shroud of high cloud crept incrementally off the radar, revealing yet more sparkling treats in the awesome galaxies above. I had ample time to ponder the folly of my ways, accompanied only by the anguished yowling of distant horny foxes and the low, baleful cry of a sleepless hound. Oh, and the occasional vehicle. Every now and then a faint rush of distance oceans intruded on the edge of my hearing, growing ever louder as another midnight road-eater approached. On one occasion I glanced back to see beams of light lapping at the roadside foliage from around the last bend, scanning towards me until the full blinding headlamp flash scarred my retinas.
Forlorn, more in hope than expectation I thrust out a lone thumb, moving onto the lurking verge so as not to join the plethora of curb-side road-kill. The roar of industrial rubber chewing up gnarled, weathered tarmac grew deafening before the mighty whoosh of the onrushing night-beast rattled my frame. I stared, resigned, as the mean, beady red tail-lights receded into the endless night, cursing my ineptitude one more time. As luck would have it I recorded the moment on AudioBoo. Here for you delectation and titillation is the result. Promise not laugh too hard-heartedly.
Marathon running came to my rescue during the difficult times. Trained to eschew the heartless time-piece at such moments I filled my head with distracting thoughts, maintaining a steady pace yard after foot-rubbing yard. Eventually the soft glow of Royston City Limits offered a beacon of hope and, footsore and dreadfully weary, I hauled my shattered carcass into the car park at Royston station and blissful, warm embrace of my faithful old truck.
A lesson learned? I very much doubt it.
On the running front there’s been nothing to speak of. I aim to join the cliff-top shamblers on Sunday for a bloated Wire-and-back. And so re-starts the re-start.
Or, in the words of Julio Double-Glazias, we begin the begin.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
