Singing “we are the champions” at the top of her voice, Clara tottered down the platform as high as her heels and only half as sensible. It had been a night of good byes. One person lost to cancer by lunch time. One boyfriend, now ex-boyfriend, said good bye over a blazing row and a few too many home truths. Clara had said good bye to her work mates at weareshit.com, followed by swift and over-inflated good byes to three school friends going to change the world somewhere far away, apparently with limited access to the Internet. The result of all these adieus was a level of inebriation hitherto unrivalled in the catalogue of grown up Clara’s misdemeanours. So that meant she was very, very drunk.

That said she mounted the steps into the beast of a train; a huge great red hulk of windows and wheels, scattered with hideous purple chairs and white formica tables. Clara plopped down into the seat, jewellery clattering on the arm of the chair as she did so. In an unflattering semi-recumbent position Clara contemplated the world and her place in it. At 32 Clara had the nagging feeling that she should be ‘moving on’. What that actually meant was beyond her, but Clara was fairly sure everyone else was doing it but her: with weddings and babies and moving house, or country, or job. Others were ‘moving on’ by retraining or retiring or even just loosing weight and getting a hair cut. One of her friends was a whole new woman, which was impressive, especially considering she had been a man five years before.

[and this is where is peters out. No idea what was going to happen. If I remember I will update. All I know was that there was a fairy involved…]