May 25 (part 2)

The Keighley train is nice and full of ladies. A pink-faced woman in a pink chenille jumper grapples with a bag for life. She has an angel-wing necklace and square, metal glasses. She ratches around in the bag - patiently, for a really long time - and eventually pulls out a pink plastic afro comb for her baby spice hair. The conductress is a vessel of warmth and joy. I’m feeling better.

Approaching Shipley it starts to rain. It becomes more and more verdant. We pass a garden tent, cow parsley, white shirts on lines. Someone hums, Here Comes the Bride, someone playfully chokes someone.

I get to a place in the country where everybody calls everybody, Love. Outside, bricks become more beautiful and there are chimneys galore. Saltaire train station is charming, and I think about Francis Bourgeois.

On to Bingley. We pass ruined farmhouses, and shining khaki-coloured lakes. Behind me, someone plays a shoot-em-up and women discuss what’s filling and what’s not. Accents become fascinating, porridge is filling, toast is not.