Ian McMillan: An 07.47 to York that took me back to 1747 – in Bolton
I was zooming up to York on the 07.47 the other day, reflecting on the fact that half my life seems to be spent on trains and the other half seems to spent either running for trains or waiting for trains or grimacing because I’ve just missed one or grinning because I’ve just caught one.
I gazed out of the window and my reflection gazed back. I noticed that my eyebrows were sprouting more than usual and that in the harsh morning light it looked like several crane flies had taken residence on my forehead and were waving their long thin legs in a Tiller Girl-style dance. I began to daydream about indulging in a bit of eyebrow-topiary and shaping them into a historical diorama like the signing of the Magna Carta or The Raising of the Flag at Iwo Jima when there was a sudden rush of air and the sky briefly turned black; a crash echoed down the aisle and people gasped like extras in cheap 1930s horror film.