The Sleeper to Inverness
The Sleeper Train to Inverness
A lovely journey that could be.
Gently asleep on the pillow.
Until you’ve got to go for a wee.
Traipsing the corridor in your pyjamas.
Being buffeted on the way.
Passing another nocturia.
Back in your bunk – hurray!
The rhythm of the track joints.
Sends you to sleep once more.
Until you pull to a stop at Preston,
And someone slams a flippin’ door.
The pulse of the track is hypnotic.
All is quite again on the train.
Soon you’re dreaming of breakfast.
But you have to go for a wee again.
The same route to the loo.
The same nocturia is seen.
Squeezing along the corridor.
Cursing that sodding caffeine.
All-nighters noisy in the club car.
It’s the middle of the night now, 2.15.
Drinking whiskey and playing cards.
But again you’ve got to go to the latrine.
Once more you are in a slumber,
When you get that early morning call.
‘6.59 and we’re at Dalwhinnie,
Breakfast is served’, all in a Scottish drawl.
A restful journey? No chance.
I feel I’ve walked to Inverness.
Too much caffeine and slamming of doors.
It’s been a journey full of stress.