Trains and owl tits.

I was on the train back home from London, cowering in a dress that would make the 19th century nobility jealous. It was a disguise, before you ask. The train, engine choo-chooing and pistons a-pistoning... Actually, I'll stop there. I don't know much about trains. Suffice to say, the train was working as it should, transporting us along the railway line at an acceptable speed. I was pleasantly drifting in and out of consciousness in my seat, the warm embrace of the sandman caressing my painted face and plump, overstuffed fake cleavage.

See? That Owl doesn't have teats for one thing...Image via WikipediaThe train sped onwards, darting across countryside and through tunnels. I wished it would just stick to the track, but I'm old-fashioned like that. Plus I was worrying it might hit a fox or a badger or something. I've read the Animals of Farthing Wood, that was enough mammal tragedy to last me a lifetime. Well, technically some of those animals weren't mammals. Stupid, nipple-less Farthing Wooders. But you get the point. Whatever it was.

Where was I going with this again?

The march on Rome

This is not my coat-of-arms. Sorry. Image via WikipediaSo, it would appear I had a small hallucination yesterday. I should clarify then, dear reader, I do NOT control the armies of Middle-Earth. I know, I know. I'm as disappointed as you.

 Anyway, the upshot of this is that I accidently marched on and occupied London. The tramps then lost interest, wandering away to beg for money and be smelly. Fearing for my safety, I bought a fake beard, shaved my head and prepared to flee the city. Then, remembering the disguise Lenin used to escape from Russia successfully in 1917, I shaved off the beard and donned a wig. I got on a train, successfully dodging the authorities and ticket inspector, and made my way home.

 My journey was fairly uneventful apart from that, but I did see a swan.

Max is out of the closet.

Purely in a literal sense. His sexuality is not a matter I wish to consider. Anyhow, I've taken to asking him about his week. He keeps mumbling and shaking, huddling himself into a little ball in the corner. I gather that his time away on other blogs did not go well, and I blame Ben.
 "Why were you late back then?"
He looked at me, big puppydog eyes wide and big like the eyes of a puppydog:
 "Tried to leave. Had to run away, so I went to sea..."
He started to sob again.
 "What?... What happened?"
 "Came ashore, we all went to the pub. Drank a little to much, and passed out. I got press-ganged!"
 "What? Onto another ship?"
 "No!" He went on, "Into the fruit and veg trade!"
Max talked long into the night, his story punctuated only by sobs and explosive vomiting. I gathered, at last, that he had awoken to find himself chained to a stall in the East End of London. There, he was forced to fake an accent, and sell fruit and veg in the persona of a lovable cockney rogue. Understandably, the experience had been rather traumatic on poor Max.
 However, it isn't all bad. His experience seems to have gained him a new job, cameoing on Eastenders. I think he's going to play a carrot.