It resonates on the tracks, a shake of the hips sideways as we shuttle forwards. My heart (my actual heart, not that poetic metaphor of love based issues) feels cloying. My awareness of its existence beneath my breast bring a paranoia of clogging tubes.

Two stops till London Marleybone, Prince Risbourgh passed; one of those places that I am not certain exists.

They chatter, those women. Three on the four seated table. The laptop man locked beneath natter. He seemed nice when asking me to keep an eye on his laptop whilst he went to, presumably, the loo. I presume the loo because there was no food and drinks cabin; and there can’t be any other reason to get out your seat. 

“Grand National’s on…that Catherine woman, the comedian, is in the new Doctor who…I watch it whilst ironing…you’d be good at the bit on entertainment”

Approaching Hgh Wycombe now. Change here for links to places, names escape me. The ladies wonder about earliness. Another mentions the expense of something.

Deleuze is certainly right about Bacon, even if I don’t know what he means.

The lime green is great.