It was, briefly, bliss: a table seat in one of the dedicated quiet carriages of the train, a flat white and flapjack, the green fields of England rolling past the window as I tapped at my laptop.
And then, horror: around ten young men got on acting more riotously than a gang of French football hooligans.
There was ‘mate!’ and ‘you p***k!’ and lashings of that laugh young men do when they’re giving each other a ribbing: ‘bwahaha’. There were lager tins in hand and one guy playing music on his phone, to which one of the others cried: ‘Choon!’
I exchanged glances
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