Escape

(Written on the plane)

The thing about taking ten months to bugger off, is that you don't just need to prep yourselves for a holiday: you need to move out. So we've spent the past fortnight loading what worldlies we care about into storage, getting around friends and relatives and then attempting to making the flat look partially less post-apocalyptic.

So yesterday we were parallel cleaning and packing from 5am until about an hour before catching a train to Heathrow. When we eventually did leave, we couldn't find a taxi and so had to drag our bags to Lime Street. It was circa 30°C and our bags were roughly the same size and weight as bodies being disposed of by the mob. We get on the train,  the reservation system wasn't working and there was a hilarious lack of luggage storage space. We ended up sitting in the disabled area on those folding chairs, listening to a Christ-awful family with badly behaved children, who spent the duration of the journey alternating between screaming and opening the toilet door and announcing that "it smells like ass" - which was illuminating.  By comparison, getting across from Euston to Heathrow at 6pm was a picnic.

So now that we've taken the hint from the UK, we're presently en route to Vancouver, drinking something fizzy.

That means you can stop playing the violin for us now.

Kurzfassung auf Deutsch: Das Wetter war heiß, unsere Gepäck war heftig und der Zug war furchtbar. Aber jetzt fliegen wir nach Vancouver und wir trinken ein paar Gläser Sekt, also alles ist in Butter!