I got to Carlisle at twenty past nine in the morning wearing a big coat and no make-up, forgetting that’s not how it’s done there. I’d left London an hour before sunrise, and was still wearing the same dress I’d worn the night before to the pub. I hadn’t slept in it, though.
I’d been glib about it to my friends, half-shouting over the rabble,
"It won’t be as bad as when they put a camera up in my bladder, and this is way bigger! It’ll be fine!"
They howled in empathetic pain and I was comforted.