Yesterday I got lost in St Albans. Imagine the scene: ten in the morning, a thick smog, no idea where I had to get to. The heart begins to pound.
Suddenly the vision of me stranded there for days, unwashed and unshaven, started to become more and more possible. Where do you go when you’re stuck in St Albans (which is a city, not as I thought, a town)? What do you do?
Anyway, it’s all ok because I found a taxi driver who pointed me in the right direction and averted a tricky situation.
Why was I there? Well, I can’t go into detail yet but let’s just say a large food company was outlining its Christmas activity for this year.
Almost as distressing as the initial confusion was the fact guests were served Christmas dinner. The first Christmas dinner of the year. Surely this is some kind of record? (4 November, I’ll make a note of that for future reference).
The dinner conjured mixed feelings. Always good to cram copious amounts of chicken into your gob, but isn’t this pushing it? The debris from Halloween is yet to be washed away and gunpowder tinges the air as I write.
Nevermind, a good meal was had and an escape was made.
A final thought: standing at the station to come home from St Albans the city, birds circled above.
