A rebel without a clue.

A breakfast of Iranian figs, beetroot juice before our trip across the fowl mouthing feature. To trip along and languidly design upon St. Mawes. Carpaccio, Cornish duck. Lucky I have money to roll in for forming luxury. Tips? Pinot grigio. Tiefffenbrunner alto adige, 2008! Spot on for lunch with carpaccio. Nearly Austrian. No cliched Italian veneizan. Hmmmm. Rested finally from heavy week. Sinking my teeth into duck about now! S. Pellegrino and plonk. The simplicity of the dark duck meat cake at hotel was excellent: confit. How would the addition of a slight crunch, like of hemp seeds, have affected that plate? The meal didst skin me, but I am grateful at £38.

Worth @ 11pm. If I thought living in a dismal half hearted, cold, excuse for comfort, which equals £50pw on top of working 50+ hours a week for an adhd ad-hoc chef who has a simple mind and rattles on about the ways and means of getting Cajun chicken ready like pick and pick and pick (just do and be done to a reasonable standard! Please!!) and being a  hieronymous Jew in flesh made real. Where there is a Matt who is a dull repeat of my man from Portsmouth 2008 without the dreads: oh I dread the repeat and lies and lies unless he is the actual urban guy who actually swallowed the poisonous tropical fish and spent 6 months strumming a 6 string guitar. Then there are the managers who are nice, but hooked in Cornwall hospitality and are not in this charmless slopping roofed old and smokey joint: people are so happy with my apparent nothing. I expected respect but I got The Rising Sun! Then again the feeling from the Harbour Inn was nonchalant. A commis called Smithy who...

Sunday 10th April, I disappeared on to the train on Sunday. ... I glimspsed 2 Mallards drifting on the early morning Aire and felt a little sprite in my feet.  I could actually travel for ever and never get tired(oh I'd be bone weary). Moving through Leeds City Station I pick up a cup of coffee and a Mcdonald's McMuffin and jog along the platform to await our first leg. I spy a copy of the Daily Star and am about to pounce when the guy beside me just gets there first. I don't read newspapers as I feel they bend your ear and corrode your soul, but then I haven't read any newspaper in a long time so I was ever so slightly moth like for a fleeting moment. That guy saved me an indignity and helped me recover from news melancholy. The first leg is 3 hours from Leeds to Birmingham New Street. I find the carriage with the fewest sets and get a forward facing table chair. I have a dislike of the squeeze that the rest of the seating arrangements provide on any mainline trai...