Getting home was a different story. It reminded me, as eventful rail journeys often do, of a day of terrible floods some time in the 1950s when I think my family had a harrowing journey by train to Norfolk, or probably back to London from Norfolk.
The memory makes no sense because my dad used to pack us all into a motorbike (called Betsy) and sidecar to take us on holiday or whatever.
My parents used to talk about one memorable journey I spent the entire time on a potty because I had been eating grapes.
Perhaps he gave up using the sidecar after my brother Simon was born?
Jonathan Brind