I had it all planned out. A quick little saunter down to Liverpool Street to catch the 18:10, in Colchester North by 19:00, and then a ride on the free shuttle to bring me, nice and warm, into Colchester’s lobotomised version of Layer Road.
“Oh no no,” said the footballing gods, “thou shalt not watch your team’s mid-season collapse IRL. Not without passing a test first of all.”
There had been a death on the tracks somewhere in deepest darkest Essex. Cue complete pandemonium at Liverpool Street, complete with devils. No trains had left for hours. Concourse seething with clammy commuters. The weak were being mercilessly trampled underfoot, forming an obliquely visible slurry of spilt coffee, Pret boxes, and frail members of the rush hour.