So, just booked the train tickets for the dreaded training course in London. There's no wriggling out of it now. Would you believe that it costs almost £90 to get in and out of the capital twice?
Yes, of course you would; you're probably much more aware of the world than I am. And I don't get out much. For that kind of cash I'd expected I could hire a helicopter and parachute into the training venue like the Milk Tray Man.
Actually that'd be brilliant: I could swipe in through the window, scoop up a sticky label and a permanent marker, rip off my balaclava and simply say, 'The name's Stubbs, Matt Stubbs,' while the helicopter rotor blades fade out behind me. It'd be an ice breaker, wouldn't it?
You do remember the Milk Tray Man, don't you? He used to be a sort of secret agent, dressed head-to-toe in black - dark and mysterious and unseen. He'd abseil into a lady's bedroom after jetski-ing across a moonlit lake or something and then he'd leave her a box of Milk Tray chocolates with a note... actually now that I think about it, that's a really weird thing to do - like some kind of unaccountably wealthy yet vastly ineffecient crazed stalker, who has yet to work out that he could just use the doorbell.
Anyway, the train will have to do.
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