The Quiet Zone

We went back into London today. Just a flying visit. Sarah had some unsold paintings to collect from an exhibition. The train takes about 40 mins. We'd done it before, seen what there is to see out of the window, so we picked the quiet zone carriage so we could read. Quiet zone? We were the only ones not on mobile phones. Mind you there was some serious business being transacted.

• Hi, it's Jim. I'm on the train.
  
• The train, yeah.
  
• You okay?
  
• Yeah, good.
  
• Yeah
  
• Yeah
  
• Sounds Cool
  
• Lovely.
  

And on and on. I'm staring at the pages of my book and I'm thinking, someone from South West Trains will be along soon and will tell them all to keep it down, because my glaring, furrowed-brow attitude isn't working. And then...

"Welcome to the 1312 to Basingstoke. Calling at, Clapham, Surbiton, Walton-on-Thames and just about every other station on God's green earth."

Then there's a pause. I read a sentence of my book.

"Safety notices are displayed throughout the train."

Good, I think. And I read the sentence again.

"If you see any suspicious packages, please tell a member of staff."

Then.

• Hi, Jim again. Forgot to say. Be there about forty minutes.
  
• Okay
  
• Cool
  
• Lovely
  

And then I put the book away. I look out of the window and consider fifty ways of murdering Jim, including throwing him from a moving train.

Anyway, we said our farewells to Jim, then back to the caravan, a quick pack, and we're on the M40 on our way home. A most enjoyable few days, especially as we know we have found our caravan legs once more. Can't wait for the next outing.