On This Day, Like Any Other Day

A fatalistic train driver announced that my train 'was for Kennington via Charing Cross, although, on this day like any other day, there are signalling problems which meant that that could change'.

First, though, I had to contend with the return of the wheeled briefcases. A woman drove over my be-sandalled foot this morning, which a) caught me surprise so that I squealed like a girl and b) bloody hurt. Stop It. Stop. It. Some of the 'bags' are getting so small they're almost handbags. One moron had a computer bag on wheels; pick it up, don't drag it behind you to career around like an unruly child.

As the mystery train made its way southwards, the effect of the signalling failure became obvious as more and more people tried to cram on the train. Welcome to the Olympic City.

Some bright spark has apparently come up with the idea of putting blocks of ice under seats in carriages to cool them down. Yeah, that'll work. Until they melt and leak and bugger up the electrics and cause puddles etc. etc. My solution is to run more frequent trains, more efficiently, so that they're not all full of hot sweaty bodies.