After a weekend spent in the fascinating hellhole between Euston, King’s Cross and Oxford Street, I am now heading home, expecting to arrive 5 hours late because of damaged overhead wires at Watford. I am not complaining: I’ve had an interesting time, I have a seat, I am heading in the right direction, and I am looking forward to whiling away a couple of hours in Leeds.
Mr Sleary Rules.
But I have just read the first paragraph of Patrick Hamilton’s “The Slaves of Solitude” (continuing my binge on mid-century austerity):
London, the crouching monster, like every other monster has to breathe, and breathe it does in its obscure, malignant way. Its vital oxygen is composed of suburban working men and women of all kinds, who every morning are sucked up through an infinitely complicated respiratory apparatus of trains and termini into the mighty congested lungs, held there for a number of hours, and then, in the evening, exhaled violently through the same channels.