So, farewell then, year of the Olympics and Sir Wiggo. The year in which the "S" stock trains finally replaced the last of the half-century old "A" stock on the dear old Met line. The wettest year in England since records began and even as I pen these lines it has been raining hard all most of the day here in beautiful Ruislip. It might let up for the fireworks at midnight. A year in which I finally ceased to be a daily commuter and mutated into a sort of dilettante traveller, journeying now and then to visit the office where I laboured for so long, and where I am beginning to feel like a relic of a distant age, handing over the systems so painfully built up to a new generation to exploit. And good luck to them.
Ah well, time is passing and I've given Ed. the night off to let off a few bangers, or get wrecked down the pub or whatever it is that blog editors do when released from their ink-damp cubby-holes. He's a bit of a pedantic irritant, but cheap, so I guess I can keep him on a little longer.
A very happy new year to all my readers.
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