Alternatively titled: 'how to lose a nights kip'. I've laid my cards out on the table here so you know where this particular journal entry is heading, however, I confess I was excited by the prospect of the sleeper train. Many of you will be aware of my love of a good murder mystery, Trish/ Rupert - I know you join me on this, and I'd love to be part of one of those classic Poirot cases aboard public transport. That is, without actually being the unlucky sod who bites the dust.
It began well. Classic six seater carriage, strange foreign dialects (French) and Chloe and I playing the role of Poirot and Hastings. We did some polite nodding and smiling but no real chat (there was no opportunity to get je voudrais out so I was scuppered) until the Italian conductor came in. Great flamboyant chap too "OK, I see, you from Britishland, Britishland!". He taught us how to open the beds out and took our passports.
Quite hungry we headed to the food and drink carriage, ate a few items with the equivalent nutritional value of plasticine and headed back. We set up the bed with our French friends and bedded down. Bear in mind that the room now has two triple bunk beds and Chloe and I are at base camp in the two smallest areas known to man. Houdini would have complained. Our French friends luxuriating in palace size accomodation whilst we find a position and are forcefully wedged there until morning.
Thats it really, other than to say that Hastings and I survived the night (combined sleep: 36 minutes) and that any would-be sleeper train passengers should always opt for the top bunk.
