I was so relieved at the end of the journey that if I had had anything left to throw up I would have made it a hat trick of pavement pizzas.

First in the liquor composed of mordant and fustic, then in green vitriol and Roman vitriol, washed off and repeated according to the colour wanted.

With years of proofreading under my belt, I knew exactly the blather and bluster favoured by professional politicians.

The train was drawing into the station.