Eleven years in London, and it never loses its potential to surprise me.
Last Saturday, I was returning mid-afternoon from a conference at the Gatwick Hilton. I had singularly failed to do the website testing that was the object of my attendance, but I did have a pleasant chat with a man with a skull and crossbones tattoo on his head, and helped a nice lady with a laryngectomy track down her phone, so it was by no means a wasted day.
I was waiting on the tube platform at Kings Cross, when instead of the northbound Piccadilly line train I was expecting, what sidled up was an old engine pulling ten scruffy yellow wagons of reddish-grey rubble.
That’s never happened before.