Today morning, when the car took a turn into the station, a carnivorous lust rose within me to devour a sleazy commercial paperback on my journey ahead. For all that fate conspired I had, in a state of dreamy stupor, forgotten confessions of a shopaholic at home. I eyed the pavement hawkers, yet the idea of getting out, stepping into the sun, buying, haggling, was so tiresome that I settled on the thought of reading the economic times.
I got down from my car and stepped into the routine pockets of time, space and people, so many people and then finally onto the train. The economic times stayed put in my bag, out was my phone, a few clicks, the complete works of Arthur Conan Doyle were downloaded, and I was on the country roads lined with elms and birches and of course my two favourite companions.