Jesus, even the mornings were closing in. His head pounded, his tongue as rough as brick dust, his bowels hot with liquid. He stared at the blue flock wallpaper until he realised where he was. He picked up his wristwatch. Shit. He had slept past lunch. Are you still in there? shouted Mrs Marsh, her fist hammering against the door. Still here, Mrs Marsh, he mumbled. He paid for his room and headed to Paddington Station to try to salvage something of the day. He had decided to buy the train ticket first then find a room around the corner for an early start to Cornwall the following morning. That was about all he could manage. His hangover chewed at his brain like a rat and he felt the sticky wash of anxiety welcome him back. He had missed the busy hours of day-trippers and passed through the ticket hall with relative ease. Clouds of steam rose as a train came to a halt, and he stood back to let the passengers and porters pass.
What do You think about A Year Of Marvellous Ways?
