Strange Train

Wednesday. Valentines Day. Following a tip from the Colonel, I drop by John Rushton's shoe shop (93 Wimpole St) for a pair of quality handmade seconds. John Rushton himself reminds me a lot of my Grandad when he was younger, and he's absurdly helpful. I plump for a nice pair of Alfred Sargent Brogues. John informs me that, "a Gentleman should have four pairs of good quality shoes, two brown and two black, and that you should never wear the same shoe two days running. And when you're feet aren't in these shoes, then a good pair of unpolished tree shoes should be". The price was a knock down half-price (75 instead of 150) for a blemish that was not visible to the naked eye, so not bad I reckon. I'll be back for those other three pairs when I get paid.

Standstead was the pits. A crowded, heinous, angry place. Relieved by the trumpet fanfare when we land (nice touch!). Stockholm central an underground version of Stanstead. On the tube home there are two extremely attractive women conspicuously snogging each other (and no, I'm not making that up!). Was it me, or was there a tangible erotic frisson running through the train? Fail to buy flowers on the way home, which in retrospect was not a very wise move. Uh-oh.