Last night in London, got soaked to the bone in a downpour. At the time it was terrible, but now quite enjoying the sound of the rain on the windowpane.
Pretty certain I sat next to Terry Waite in St Pancreas station. Considered, in this particular case, of breaking my rule of not approaching (read: hassling) public figures as it was humbling to think that the slightly anonymous looking gentlman on the bench next to me had endured four years as a hostage. Indeed, I surprised myself at how emotional I got thinking about his past, but it seemed politer to let him carry on with what he was reading than put up with my well-intended, but almost certainly tiresome, ramblings. Besides, how embarrassing would it have been if it was a simple case of mistaken identity?