Trashy magazine? Check. Comfortable clothes? Check. Drammamine? Check. Seeing that the steward for my section of the plane oddly resembles Same from The Lord of the Rings...and is named Sam, not prepared for that.
So I was served tea, curry, and asked 'you alright?' by a Hobbit. Already experiencing too much turbulence for my taste, having an obvious fan of the Jersey Shore fashion stealing more than half of the arm rest, and realizing my ass is just too ghetto to be even slightly comfortable in the bathroom, having this character walking up and down the aisle every now and then just made the plane trip that much more enjoyable. Watching 'Good Hair' by Chris Rock, THAT my friends is a money movie definitly worth watching while trying to get your attention off the man snoring 5 rows back and that faint smell of B.O. and what is that? Patchoulie? Where's the hippie?
At one point during my epic journey to the Great North, I told myself stupidly, "Something HAS to go wrong, this is all being way too successful." Gosh am I dumb. Dumb Dumb Dumb. About half hour later, our train, which was on it's first day of travel, has to terminate in Peterborough. Definition of Peterborgouh--A hole of a city in which the main language consists of putting "idn't though" in every 4 to 5 words that vaguely resemble the Midlands English dialect. Luckily there was a train, delayed, right behind us that picked us up, offered us vouchers to compensate the delay/cancellation/general pain in the ass, and set forth for Newark Northgate station. One more transfer, right? Well, right. Ohhhh, but no one's ever SEEN a huge backpack before so let's all stare at the spectacle hmm? Bother.
Rambling done.
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