Betwixt Returns In Preflight Domestic Hoohah!

“A large Latte with one sweetener please” . Primrose of AMT Coffee replied “that WILL be £3.60, though it WILL take 10 minutes….the machine’s on the blink.”


With this, dear reader, I present my latest long overdue instalment of Betwixt The Interim, a heartwarming and searing study into the foibles of this world, particularly in ones travels around in same.

In readiness for some late summer journeys to La Belle Macron, to visit my friend and cabaret partner “there’s no running water”, followed by El Sandy Sitges, con Los Muchos Poofos, y Los Grandes Gintonicos, I find myself mid Heatwave on a rarity, namely a Southbound Train to Brighthelmstone, a seaside last resort, and location for duggery of skull, enness of drunk, and selldate departed of drag, not to mention supplier of sticks of sweetness with Birhgton written all through, as ones teeth give way during consumption.

Ones desire to resume major travelling has exacerbated recently due to the Misery Malaise and Mayness of things Politic.

In between writing jazz cabaret arrangements, regular phrases such as NO DEAL, PARLIAMENT IS FEBRILE, and THE HARD BREXITEERS have been outblurted with such regularity that erstwhile Southern Hemisphere 2 hour beach walks and rooftop bar observationary cocktails all across The Land Of Trump have been sorely missed, and evenings discussing future trips and car leasing replacements on ones local uncomfortable bar benches have done nothing except whet the Overseas Appetite.

The recorded train announcer says “If you see something that isn’t right, contact the Train Supervisor”. Well, this country seems to be hurling itself over the nearest cliff. Does that count Mrs Thameslink?

My coffee has now settled into a kind of turgid stale lukewarmity that’s actually rather disgusting. It’s even fighting its way through my Colgate Plus White Tornado lining causing an instant need for Brighton Bubbles.

The words “we shall shortly be arriving at Balcombe” don’t help. It seems such a long time since I reported on the Mobility Scooter collision on Deck 12, and though more future journeys will be peopled by Brit Air trolley dollies (av. age 44, camp, largely from Leicester) throwing plastic gin bottles into the laps of Nurse Skipton and I in Business, I trust dear reader, to keep you informed entertained and insulted.

Next stop Acapulco. OK, Hassocks.

More soon!


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