There I was, there we were...Whiling away a Wednesday evening, with fruitily feminine friends at the Pitcher and Piano off Covent Garden, coming late to the "party" thanks to the Day Today-esque ITV News, but happily and successfully playing catch-up as the fresh wine bottles, and safely-meat-free Nachos plates are ordered forth...
And we chitter, and chat, and gossip, and gobble, before eventuqlly we're parting ways.. but sadly my train from Kings Cross is half-an-hour hence, so I dart into the railway tavern for one more innocuous glass, Birmingham-Liverpool highlights on the high-above, before I go...
And I stay awake for most of the trudge, bounding up and down and filling in the odd crossword clue as we go, only to clock the (for-me) penultimate stop of Oakleigh Park... then get shuffled awake at Welwyn.
Cos....
..... mic.
No trains go back to Barnet, so it's an entirely avoidable taxi ride, along motorways and old Roman roads, trying to avoid coherent conversation even as I express gratitude...
Then, I'm finally home, somehow, strangely, sometime...
And thankful I didn't quite emulate a friend, who similarly dozed off to the end of the line, but found himself in a far-distant station waiting room, staggering resignedly towards the silhouette in the corner of another woebegone wastrel...
And compelled to utter, blearily, gradually compos-mentis-makedly...
... "... Dad...?"
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