You can’t kill time at Retford station; you can only prolong its suffering.
So heavy and so hard is the rain that it would render Peter Kay too sodden to come up with a reasonable anecdote about its density.
Platform One is a heaving mass of January; huddled coats, blown hands, clutched coffees and a general yearning for a brighter day, or at the very least, a table seat.
“Would you like me to throw him on the tracks for you love?” offers a man standing nearby. It really is much friendlier up north.
My seat reservation has landed me an aisle seat, which means looking outside involves gracelessly staring across the girl sat next to me.