Wiltshire, Trains And Canadians

I’ve had a lovely few days in Wiltshire.
Although a deaf, possibly senile, old Greyhound barking in your face for no apparent reason is a bit wearing.
Especially when her breath smells like a bucket of shit.
Blue dragged me along the side of the Kennet and Avon Canal and then across three fields.
It was glorious.

The Mid week train to Westbury is another country all together.
It is basically the ‘Fat Lass’ Express until it gets to Southampton, with some of the lesser lards alighting at Fareham.
There was one, who couldn’t have been more than 20, who looked like she had her considerable arse on backwards and could only move sideways along the carriage.
Southampton was also where the elderly unidentified ‘North Americans’ got on.
They were loud and had truck loads of stuff which was used to barricade themselves in to the window seats.

I stood as we pulled into Westbury, just as the old woman noticed the White Horse cut in to the hill.
“Aw!! Look! Look!” out came the camera but she couldn’t get out of her seat.
“Excuse me would you mind taking a picture for me?”
Shit!
“Um, Canadians or Americans?” I asked.
“Canadians” she replied.
“Of course! No problem” and I took the photo.
As I was handing the camera back the old man pipes up,
“What if we had been Americans?”
“If you’d been Americans you would have had a brilliant story about a hideously rude Englishwoman you met on the train. Enjoy your trip. Bye!”
They were still laughing as the train pulled out and they waved enthusiastically.