There are some unusual consequences of living in one climate zone and working in another.
The three mile cycle to the station was largely obliterated by torrential rain this morning. Some clothes, like the trousers I'm wearing today, don't show when they're wet. This is always a dubious feature. It means that a man sopping wet can appear bone dry. Indeed having removed my jacket, I looked almost unaffected by the downpour - my flowing locks notwithstanding.
As usual with these commuter trains, the carriage was cramped and hot and not, therefore, dissimilar to sitting in a tumbledryer. This is not normally a feature I appreciate but, today, I drew what comfort I could. I found an empty seat next to man apparently asleep since Crewe.
It's a curious sensation, sitting in wet pants. Curiouser still as one starts to warm up.
Near Berkhampstead, my sleeping neighbour stirred.
Poor fellow, I think he woke a little disorientated.
He seemed confused by the clouds of steam billowing from my legs, the puddle between my feet and faint smell of damp dog.
"Morning." I said brightly.
In spite of my cheeriness, I couldn't help feeling as though I was intruding slightly.
He looked at me as if he'd found a stranger in his bed after a drunken night out. "My God, what have I done?" I saw him think to himself.
'Erm, hello' he replied, embarrassed, 'Excuse me.' It was part request and part apology.
He got up. And left. I didn't see him again.
I was left gently treading water.
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