Friends in Calais invited me to their baby’s birthday party. He’s a year old. They suggested an overnight stay and I planned to reach France by about mid-afternoon and have a stroll, visit the sights, buy a bit of tat for the nipper and a litre of plonk for the proud parents.
Clouds of sweet diesel vapour enveloped me. My pulse quickened. In the 1970s, it all smelt like this
The morning express sped me south and I was entertained on board by the Bing-Bong Pixie who referred to the train as ‘this 10.02 service from London Victoria to Dover Priory’. She recited the name of every stop on the line and repeated it twice each time we reached a new station. Her chirpy tone concealed a rather malevolent side. She seemed convinced gangs of fare–dodgers were operating on the train. ‘This service is patrolled by uniformed and plain clothes revenue protection teams,’ she said.
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