I don't think I will go home by train ever again. Not only was my first train delayed, but I had to wait at Peterborough station for an hour because the train I was meant to be getting to Leicester had already gone while I was still on the first train. And thus I spent an hour in a cafe doing crosswords/arrowwords/general horoscope reading courtesy of Closer magazine (which is the magazine of cack. Don't buy it even though it will tempt you in with its 'Only �1!' advertisement).

The second train I got would have surely fit better in a horror film of DEATH rather than real life. It was so unbelievably packed. Fair enough, it's a Sunday evening and there are bound to be people wanting to get to destinations of their choice, but was it packed with normal people? Noooooooooo. I ended up finding a tiny, tiny spot on the floor, where I sat on my backpack, only to be trampled on every few minutes by people wanting to tread over me to get to the toilet. I think there had been some kind of festival somewhere as a lot of drunken yoofs were wearing festivally type wristbands and swigging canned lager back like there was no tomorrow. One Irish woman in particular who could only have been drugged up, funked out or heavily inebriated kept staggering past me and asking me if I could smell sausages in the carriage, because she could. But by the second time she passed me it was the aroma of spring rolls, not sausages, that had taken over her nasal cavity.

So after one long hour of being scrunched up on the floor and surrounded by people I desperately didn't want to be surrounded by the train finally drew in to Leicester station, where I got a taxi back to my halls (it took me about ten minutes to locate the door handle when I was trying to get out and I couldn't understand a single word the driver was saying to me when trying to aid the process of me exiting the fucking taxi).

You'd just love to be me, wouldn't you?

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