NO REST FOR THE WICKED
This day was hideously uneventful. Unless you consider a 14 hour night train hurtling towards Paris stuck in a tiny compartment with five men, four of them definitely foul-smelling, un-showered Mafiosa, one of them definitely a foul-smelling, un-showered Gene, on two sets of three bunk beds, which would not legally be defined as 'beds', trying to sleep, whilst also trying to clutch everything of value I had on me, and desperately trying to block out the stunning, surround-sound snivelling and snoring that reverberated off every hard surface, which I assure you were plentiful, eventful. If so, you can ask me about it when I get back.
NEVER AGAIN
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