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[FINDS] MEGA list of winter finds: everything you need to stay cosy - Taobao and AE
Hi ladies, like most here I've done my fair share of shopping (and then some) during 11.11 and black friday. Here are some finds I've come across while compiling my latest hauls. I haven't bought anything from this list unless stated otherwise, so I can't comment on quality or accuracy. Make sure to check reviews and/or use the help of an agent to check if something is branded. Due to the table formatting, you might have to scroll to the side to view the whole text if you're on mobile. Happy shopping!
Shop with Burberry scarves, shawls and other brands. This shop has been reviewed here and on /fashionreps a few times, I've purchased the lightweight Burberry scarf from them and am happy with it, not sure if it's really 100% cashmere, but it feels high quality and the fabric feels silky.
Clarkson's Columns: Books Won't Help Blokes, the Mini Electric Review, and a column from Jezza's girlfriend
Worthy books won't see a chap through lockdown. Give me explosions, Nazi gold and reviewers' tears By Jeremy Clarkson (Sunday Times, May 3) New research shows that men usually give up on a book by the time they've got to page 50. Hmmm. I've never not finished a book. Obviously this doesn't include instruction manuals. I've never read one of those to the end. But when it comes to proper books, I've always kept going. Even when they were worthy and terrible and full of people in ruffs and bonnets, I continued to sail on HMS Optimism through the sea of turgid reality, praying that eventually the dreary Victorian heroine would have mad sex and then get eaten by a shark. The trouble with this policy is that she never was. So I've wasted a large chunk of my life doing something I wasn't enjoying. And as a result, I've grown to fear books. I'm 60 now. At best I have only 87,000 hours left before I die, and I don't want to spend any of them being avoidably miserable. In the past five weeks I could have read maybe 30 books. But the number I've actually read is nought. This is because I've been doing hard manual labour, and after a tiring day in the fields, I'd rather shoot a Nazi zombie in the face than read the "searing and poignant" tale of a Romanian woman's 50-year search for her hat. Which is what all books are about these days. Examples I may have made up include The Duvet of Blossoms by Pandora Treacle. Set in a remote Cornish village, Pandora's sweeping new novel looks at the lives of two elderly women who occasionally meet when they're posting letters. Or there's How Dare You! by Milly Lennial. Milly's first novel, published by All Men Are Bastards Books, is a meticulously researched account of how powerful white males such as Prince Philip and "Bomber" Harris are responsible for all the plastic in the oceans. I've had a canter through all the most talked-about books at the moment and what we have is Dilly Court's The Summer Maiden, which is about women doing something or other in the 19th century. Then you have Wilde Like Me, which is about a woman trying to be less dull, and The Cows, which is about three women who want to be heard. It doesn't explain what they're saying but I bet it's nothing of any consequence. My daughter is raving about The Beekeeper of Aleppo, about which I know nothing except that the author's previous work was called A Watermelon, a Fish and a Bible. And that really, really doesn't sound like my cup of tea. It sounds, in fact, like the sort of tea women drink that isn't tea at all, because it's made from nettles. What I must know, before I begin a book, is that I will definitely enjoy it. If there's any doubt, it goes straight onto the bookcase that I, like Tory MPs, use as a backdrop when doing a Skype interview on television. But how can you know you will definitely enjoy a book before you have started it? Reviews are no help because all of them are written by weird fedora people in corduroy who would actually enjoy the searing and poignant tale of a Romanian woman's 50-year search for her hat. I have nothing in common with book reviewers. They want nuance and elegance, whereas I want Apache helicopter gunships. They look for what's not being said. They look for hints and suggestions. Whereas I look for speedboats and submarine evasion manoeuvres. If you gave a reviewer a book with an explosion on the front cover, and a gold ingot embossed with a swastika, and a girl in a bikini playing baccarat, you can be assured she'd give it one star. Give her a book about a Dutch girl's flower arranging class and she might need to go off for some me-time. We, in the real world, like Jilly Cooper and Jeffrey Archer and EL James. But none of their books are reviewed well. They are sneered at because they are populist, and populism in the arts is always seen as vulgar. To be truly great, a writer must die at the age of 42, alone and penniless. To achieve this, you must write books that only reviewers like. I devour books when I am on holiday, but this has been getting harder in recent years. Tom Clancy, Clive Cussler and Arthur C. Clarke are dead. Wilbur Smith is pushing 90. Worst of all, Lee Child announced recently that he's hanging up his pen and letting his brother write the Jack Reacher books. To make matters worse, when you are on a beach you cannot lie there reading something with an explosion on the front cover because everyone will think you're a moron. Biographies work quite well, but I've enjoyed only two. There was Dear Boy: The Life of Keith Moon and Keith Richards's memoir Life, written with James Fox. I seem to have a thing for people called Keith. That said, I'm lucky because I have a local bookshop — Jaffé & Neale — whose owners, Patrick and Polly, give me a cup of coffee while they scurry off to find a pile of books they know I'll enjoy. They've never been wrong. They gave me a book about Mexican drug cartels called The Power of the Dog, and it was breathtaking. And then there was Matterhorn. That's a book where you're very tempted to give up on page 50. The Vietnam War dialogue is impenetrable. But as usual I persevered and, ooh, I'm glad, because it's the second-best book ever written. After The House at Pooh Corner, obviously. Don't argue. It is. Anna Karenina. The Great Gatsby. War and Peace. These are the books Mark Twain was on about when he observed that a classic book is "something that everyone wants to have read, and no one wants to read". That, I guess, is why so few men are capable of getting past page 50. Everyone is trying to write classic books rather than great books full of global annihilation and Cylons coming at Mach 5 out of the sun. ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Sorry Clarkson, but I will argue. I doubt Mark Twain had any of those three books in mind (especially since one was published after he died and the other two would have been "new" in his time). Having read Gatsby and War and Peace, I can say they're classics for the most obvious reason: they're profoundly good. And they're pleasurable and not difficult to read. Don't let inverse snobbery deprive you of good books. Anyway, here's the automotive column... ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Sparky, but it won't set anyone alight The Clarkson Review: Mini Electric By Jeremy Clarkson (Sunday Times, May 3) Because of delays relating to current circumstances, I'm talking to you from the past. It's late March, and a week ago we were all ordered to stay at home. Especially in Derbyshire, where the police have broken out the Stasi manuals and are running amok using drones to buzz hikers in the Peak District and megaphones to harangue elderly ladies popping to the chemist for more support tights. Even worse are the Neighbourhood Watch types, who've become the behaviour police. They sit behind their permanently twitching curtains, making detailed notes about anybody who drives past. They are loving the lockdown because suddenly everybody else is made to live as they do, in a friendless haze of relentless daytime television and tinned soup. At the moment most people are playing ball. There are no contrails in the sky, and you could walk down Regent Street at 6pm on a Friday knowing you aren't going to be knocked down. Well, not by a car, at any rate. For some reason the powers-that-be are still keeping the double-decker Petri dishes moving. Luckily, I am not affected. I can go where I please, partly because I have a press card. And partly because I'm a farmer, so I'm a key worker. I can therefore whizz about as much as I like in my Range Rover and, though I wouldn't dream of putting this to the test, I'm fairly sure I could get away with running it on red diesel. "Sorry, officer, but I was scared of the 'ronavirus being on the pump." I wish to God that I had a truly great car to test, because to bomb about now, on deserted roads, knowing that all of the police force is busy telling youths to stop their kickabout in the park and go home, would be bliss. I haven't, though. As I've explained, I'm stuck with the last cars to be delivered before the lockdown, which I'm working my way through. I recently reported on a Vauxhall Corsa, which has been appropriated by my girlfriend's daughter. I also have an electric version of the Mini Cooper S. First things first: it's bloody cheap. Factoring in the government's £3,000 cashback incentive, prices start at a whisker under £25,000, which is obviously a lot for a Mini, but for an electric car it caused me to sit up a bit and pay attention. Sure, I was lent a Level 3 version, but even that was only £30,900, and it's a lot of car for that kind of money. You certainly get a lot of tech. It has the same "hybrid synchronous" motor as BMW fits to the i3. This means — pay attention — that within the rotor design you get the effect of permanent magnets combined with something called "reluctance". This cuts down the need for rare-earth neodymium, which means the rotor can spin faster. I can see why James May likes electric cars so much. To him this kind of talk is way beyond erotica. It's filth. What normal people care about, though, is the oomph, and that's not bad. You get 181 horsepower and nearly 200 torques. And so, even though the Mini is both big and very, very heavy, it'll get from zero to 62mph in 7.3 seconds. It actually feels faster than that. It feels faster than its petrol-powered brother. But it isn't. Not quite. And I must now put the needle back on the same old record and explain, once again, why I shall never buy a car propelled by electricity. This is a personal thing. I know Richard Hammond wants a Tesla and I know James May already has one, along with an i3 and some kind of hydrogen car. Not sure what sort it is, but it looks very boring in the pictures. I'm afraid, however, that I do not share their enthusiasm. Yes, when you put your foot down at low speed there is instant and dramatic thrust. But before your passenger has time to say "wow", it's over. In this respect the power delivery from an electric motor is like the power delivery you get from a diesel. There's one big lump, and then it's gone. I much prefer the seamlessness of petrol. Sure, the electric car whizzes off the line more quickly, but as the seconds tick by the petrol car will catch up. What's more, if you run the race five times the electric car will start to lose its immediacy, and if you run it 10 times it'll stop working altogether because the batteries will be flat. Then there's the issue of slowing down. In a proper car you can coast. And if you coast in gear you will be using no fuel at all. Not a lot of people know that. In an electric car you cannot coast because the act of slowing down is used to top up the batteries. It's called regenerative braking and it makes my nose swell up with rage. In the Mini you take your foot off the throttle and it's as if you've jammed the bloody brakes on. This means gentle driving is tricky. It also means that, much to the surprise of the driver behind, you shudder to a halt 300 yards before every set of traffic lights, every roundabout and every T-junction. But it's not this, or the quality of the power delivery, that causes me to shy away; it's the noise. All you can hear in an electric car is the tyres. And, frankly, I'd rather listen to the bubbling stomach juices of the lion that's just eaten me. My Alfa GTV6 is a musical instrument. The noises it makes cause the hair on the back of my neck to rise. No electric car will ever do that. Because an electric car is nothing more than a dishwasher. That stops about four minutes before you want it to. I appreciate, however, that I'm speaking to only a very few people. (Hi, Eric.) Most will be ignoring the hairs on the back of my neck and saying, "Yes. But the Mini costs only 4p a mile to run." This is undoubtedly true. If you choose your electricity provider and your timing correctly, and you operate the throttle using nothing but the down of a newly born owl, you will achieve this figure. And you will also get a range of 140 miles before you need to charge the batteries. Two things on that. One, in normal running you will not get anything like 140 miles before you need to find a plug socket and sit about for 12 hours while the damn thing comes back to life. And, two, rival electric cars from Peugeot and Renault can go further than 140 miles. Quite a lot further. There are other issues too. The proper Mini has fairly cramped accommodation for passengers in the back, but, because the batteries are under the back seat, there's even less room in the electric version, and the boot is suitable only for people who have a pet ladybird. It wouldn't work at all if you had two. Further forward, things are much better because it's familiar Mini territory. Like the last version I drove, the electric car has a dash that changes colour to tell you things. I don't know what those things are, but it looks cool. I like the head-up display too, even though it gives you exactly the same information as you get on the dinky new instrument binnacle, which is located about an inch away from it. I quite like the way the car handles too. It may weigh more than a policeman's lockdown bellow, but it still has the Mini nimbleness. The ride's not brilliant, though. And that's another reason I'd buy the petrol-powered version instead. Of course, you may be sold on the idea of an electric car — and don't be ashamed by that, because you're not alone. Plenty of others like sitting about waiting for the batteries to charge and driving along in a state of permanent panic that they're going flat again. But even if you are green'n'clean, I still think the Mini is no good. The price is fine, but the French alternatives are better cars. If, that is, you can think of a battery-powered personal mobility unit as a "car". Which I don't, and never will. ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- here's the Sun column: "Instagram generation don’t know what’s going on because all they see is pampered celebs boasting about lockdown" And here's a bonus--a column by Clarkson's girlfriend: FARMER CLARKSON IS WORKING ME LIKE A DOG. CAN I BE FURLOUGHED, PLEASE? Building dams and putting up fences is not how Lisa Hogan imagined spending lockdown with her partner, Jeremy Clarkson By Lisa Hogan (Sunday Times, May 3) I have played it all wrong from the start, this lockdown with Clarkson on the farm. In the early days, hearing Jeremy shout, "I have just had a genius idea!", my ears would prick up. I would listen, in full meerkat alert pose, as he explained, for example, how we could reroute a dribble of a stream into a pond. Then, day after day, we would trundle to the dam, and Jeremy would bellow instructions while I lugged wheelbarrows full of clay over a series of old doors that served as a makeshift bridge. "Get your act together, Elastigirl," Jeremy boomed as the door with the wheelbarrow on began sliding away from the door with my feet on. The last thing I saw was the exasperation on his face as I fell into the freezing water. Jeremy's energy has always been extraordinary. He whizzes between his seven jobs (or is it 11 now?), flicking a two-fingered salute at the fact he had his 60th birthday a few weeks ago. I am a decade younger, athletic and have always been a willing partner in his creative ideas on the farm. But now I'd like to check into Slothdom, please. I can't keep up. Can't I be furloughed? Take the saga with our old Aga. Not long after confinement began, beastly easterly winds blew down its vent and from then on its cooking temperature would barely rise above tepid. After eating dinner post-midnight a few nights in a row, Jeremy had a brilliant idea. "Why don't you fix the Aga? All you have to do is disassemble the cupboard under the sink, unscrew the engine and see whether any soot's stuck." I did not want to do this. We have a farmhand who normally deals with this kind of thing, but he's not allowed in the house now. The cupboard under the sink is scary, and if it turns out it's not soot that's the problem, Jeremy will come up with many other excellent suggestions that could well singe what's left of my grizzled hands, or blow me up. So I refused to fix the Aga. On Sunday, I put lunch in the oven at 9.30am. It wasn't ready until 4pm. Ha, that will teach him, I told myself as he sat on the terrace, reading in the sun with a glass of rosé. With us on the farm is Ali, my 18-year-old daughter, who has been my little helper: my sous-chef in the kitchen, on constant dishwasher duty and in charge of the chickens. I've only found one dead and only occasionally discovered them still sweltering in their coops at 9am when Ali's slept through her sunrise alarm. Out of pity, we decided she could have a friend to stay and work on the farm and help with the ever-growing list of "brilliant ideas" Jeremy sets as tasks. But we would have to apply some strict self-isolation rules: Ali and her friend would stay away from me and Jeremy for two full weeks. Initially, I suggested they stick to the older, separate part of our cottage, but Jeremy thought this was just a cunning plan for me to get out of being his laundry bitch, since the washing machine is in that part of the house. I was annoyed that this ploy hadn't crossed my mind. There may have been alcohol involved when, instead, we decided to buy an isolation mobile home for Ali. When it arrived, I thought, "Holy Moly! How drunk could we have been?" The horror is two-tone green, with green carpet and green sofas. It's an eyesore with conjunctivitis. The girls could in theory come back into the cottage now, but they've found the barn where the booze is stored and refuse to do so. I'm allowed to visit if I need to use their oven. Jeremy had been filming a new farming series for Amazon. But the crew that used to pile into the house are gone, along with the delicious film-set catering. So now it's me filming wobbly scenes on a little video camera. Jeremy gets in position, says his bit, shouts "Cut!", then pff, he's gone. Half the time I haven't got round to turning the camera on. Around week four, I hit a slump. The Groundhog Day routine has got to me. So the next evening, at dusk, Jeremy leads me deep into a wood. We climb up onto a wobbly plank high in a tree opposite a badger hide. Our badger watching plan doesn't get far because we chat too much. Jeremy loves nothing more than to tell an interesting story he's read or heard, then I tell him something that he doesn't find interesting at all, but we natter on our perch until it's dark. Back at the house, he lights the fire in the party barn, puts on the disco lights and plays me his favourite vinyls from the 1970s. I dance my heart out. Even though he thought it would be funny to put my daggy dancing on Instagram, I'm back in high spirits the next day. I've been sleeping well, but Jeremy less so. Waking after the deepest sleep, I found him awake, bleary-eyed and shattered. To make up for it, I cut his hair, which grows outwards. At one point I heard it brushing the door frames as he walked through the cottage. Using clippers, I've done quite a good job. Now he wants to return the favour. I'm about to fire up my home waxing kit (let me point out, this is for me), when he offers to assist me with the parts I can't reach. I look warily at his enormous hands. "Can't you fix the Aga instead?" I ask, but he's adamant. Who would have thought it? As it turns out, we've both acquired new skills during the lockdown.
All I could do was yell in frustration as the train left the platform without me on it. My mad dash across the bridge had been for nought, and I was left sweating and angry on Platform 2 as the 17:40 to Lincoln chugged away from the station and sped around the bend. Had my train from Grimsby not been delayed at Habrough I would’ve made my connection in plenty of time. I dropped my bag and threw my empty paper cup at the ground, not thinking about how it made me look. As if to prove my point an old couple and a sleepy-looking teenage boy stared at me like I was a crazy lady, and I can hardly blame them. I probably should have taken the direct train but it was cheaper to change at Barnetby, and according to the conductor that was where I was. I knew Barnetby was a small rural village but I was expecting the station to be bigger. This place only had two platforms, with the Information Desk and a glass-box waiting room indoors. There were a few metal benches and a pole-mounted station clock standing in the middle of Platform 2. The usual signposts denoting the station name weren’t present, but I trusted that the conductor knew the route well enough. After taking a few deep breaths I flicked my hair out of my eyes and lifted my bag on to my back. It wasn’t very big or heavy, just a small rucksack carrying my headphones, charger and whatever book I was reading at the time. The colourful stars pattern made it look like it was designed for someone younger, but it was cheap and did the job so I didn’t care. I turned and headed back over the bridge towards the main building, avoiding interacting with the few people there. The departure boards were above the Info Desk and I needed to know when my next train out of here was coming. Shuffling past a man in a grey suit and a young couple sharing headphones, I pushed through the double doors to what I guess could be called the foyer. A middle aged woman with bobbed blonde hair sat behind the glass screen. She was more over dressed than a typical ticket desk attendant, with her lazily applied pastel pink eyeshadow and overly-white teeth. Maybe she literally dressed for the job she wanted, but it made her appear stuck up and off putting. When I approached, she remained slouched across her chair looking disinterested. Ignoring her, I checked the screen showing the names and times of destinations and departures. Much to my relief a train to Lincoln would be arriving at 18:05 on Platform 2, and there would be another one at 18:15 that would go through to Nottingham. Luckily I wouldn’t have a long wait here. Not only was the station small but it was pretty isolated too, and I didn’t want to spend even one hour stuck in a place where I couldn’t even get a £2 cup of coffee. The road outside was a long flat line, stretching out on both sides until it met the horizon. There was no sign of the town, only a wind turbine and three small houses a few miles away upon the hill. Other than that, there were just crop fields surrounding the station. It wasn’t as if there was somewhere to go out and buy a magazine from. I sat down in the small waiting room and texted my train times to my dad. He replied back with a smile-emoticon and “gr8. Will pick you up.” My phone’s battery was only at 68%, but that would probably last until I got home. The only other people waiting there with me were a mum and dad with two toddlers, and a college-age girl in a hood resting a skateboard on her knees. There was a vending machine next to the door, but a paper sign stuck to the front said it was Out of Order. I took off my bag and relaxed into the grey plastic chair to idly flick through Twitter for a few minutes. A train pulled up to the platform and the small family got up and left. It was 17:55 so this one wasn’t my train, but I prepared to leave anyway. Lifting my bag by the handle, I got up and went back out to the platform. It was quieter now, the man I’d passed by and the old couple who’d watched my little tantrum were gone. The boy and girl were still there, huddled against the wall and not looking up from their MP3. I sat on the blue metal bench near the couple and messaged Dad again, “train nearly here see you soon x.” The battery icon was showing 42%, but I wouldn’t really need it once I got on the train. Before long it was 18:03 and I jumped up ready with my ticket in hand, even more eager to get back home. I watched as the station clock ticked round to 18:05 and listened out for that familiar horn. Staring in the direction I knew the train would come from I rocked back and forth on my toes impatiently. Why wasn’t the train showing up? Had there been a delay? Had there been an announcement? It got to 18:08 and the train still didn’t show. Gritting my teeth in order to prevent another public outcry, I turned sharply and marched to the Info Desk. The lady was staring into space until I knocked on the desk in front of the glass screen. “Hi,” I said, “is the train to Lincoln delayed?” She kept staring for a few seconds before blinking as if she’d just woken up. “No.” She said. “It should be here soon.” Trying not to sound forceful, I tried again “Are you sure? The board said it 18:05 and it’s way past that.” This time she only nodded. I slammed my hand on the desk a little too hard, “When is my train getting here?” I pleaded, “I need to let my dad know!” At first she was just silent, before forcing a smile and saying “It should be here soon.” I was about to ask her again, but gave up right as I opened my mouth. She was wasting my time. Huffily, I hoisted my bag over my shoulders properly and trudged back to the platform. It was still warm out, and the dry heat was making my jeans stick to my legs. My hair felt dry and all I could think of was the warm bath I would take when I got home. The next train couldn’t get there soon enough! My phone buzzed in my hoodie pocket and I whipped it out in time to see a new message from dad, “Safe travels, see you soon.” I replied to let him know “train was delayed, will be on way soon” before switching the device off to save the last 36% of charge. There was a whistle and a metallic grind and my heart leapt in relief. I looked around to see a train that was pulling up to the opposite platform. Had I read the time wrong? Because it was 18:15 and this train was definitely not going towards Nottingham. Was the departure board broken? Confused, I went back to try the lady at the Info Desk. Ms. Clueless was the same as when I last saw her, slumped over and staring lazily through the glass screen. The departure board was still showing times, but wasn’t listing any destinations. Gripping the edge of the desk I demanded answers from the nation’s worst rail employee, “What time is the next train to Lincoln? I need to know now.” She gave a wide grin that looked fake, “It should be here soon” she said in a chipper tone, “what does the board say?” The board remained blank. I gritted my teeth, “I think, it might be broken.” She didn’t respond and carried on smiling at me. This time I couldn’t hold myself back, “Tell me when the next damn train to Lincoln is!” I yelled “I need to know now, I have to get home now!” She still didn’t react. Slamming my hands on the desk, I tried again “When is my next train? Do your job and tell me!” She shrugged and said “I’m sure it’ll be here soon.” Unable to take any more of her vague and useless drivel I stormed over to the waiting room, dropped back onto the chair and cried into my lap. This isn’t what I needed today. I needed a bath and a sleep in my old bed more than ever. At least this time nobody was watching me, the girl with the skateboard wasn’t there anymore. Maybe she got on the train that just left? The sun had started to go down by then, with the orange glow beginning to bleed into the sky. Drying my tears on my sleeve I pulled my phone out again, my dad would need to know that I might be here for a while. I switched it on to be met with the Battery Only 20% notification. I swiped it away, it would be enough for this text but possibly not any more. “Train is delayed, dunno when I’ll be back now.” Quickly I turned it off again in case that would help, and immediately began looking for a plug socket. The waiting room walls were almost entirely windows, and the only visible power outlet was behind the vending machine. There was no way I could reach that. Giving up I zipped my phone back into my bag and went to stand out on the platform again. The station felt a lot more isolated now. The headphone couple were gone along with the sleepy-guy who’d been staring at me earlier. Had there been another train? They could have just left but it would have been a long walk into town, I hadn’t seen a bus or car go by for a while either. I sat back on the bench, staring eagerly at the bend in the track to the left. Hoping that, maybe soon there’d be a train coming around it to get me out of there. My eyes flicked between watching the tracks and checking the hands of the station clock. It was around 19:15 when it began to get a bit darker. The lights in the main entrance came on and the clock face lit up too. Even the lights in the houses in the distance switched on one by one. I had no idea why anyone would be living out there, miles away from the town or other people. What would they do in an emergency? Surely that wasn’t Barnetby. Instantly curious I fished out my phone again, aware that it would probably be for the last time that night. I switched it on to see it only had about 17% battery, but it was enough to let me open my Maps app. I tapped the icon that would make it jump to show my location but all it brought up was a blank space. Scrolling around didn’t bring up any place names or landmarks either. As the battery was low it was possibly glitching so I tried reloading the app again. But this time the “unable to find your location” message popped up. At this point I knew it was pointless to try again, so I just gave up and put the phone back. The heat of the day finally began to fade and the evening chill was welcome to me. I still listened out in hopes for a train, but the air was quiet and dead. Nothing but the stirrings of birds and the low hum of the turbine from a few miles away. I covered my head with my hood and rested my face in my hands. All I could think about was dinner and my old bed which I couldn’t get back to soon enough. I could feel myself drifting off as I stared out at the fields again. My head kept sliding out of my hands and I’d snap myself back into focus. I must have been super tired because at one point I started seeing things. The tall crops started to look like waves and the lights in the houses turned off and on in what looked like a pattern. My sleepy daze was cut short by the sound of the heavy front doors scraping open. Curious, I looked around through the windows of the waiting room. Was someone else here to get a train? With the lights all on inside, I saw a short man in a mustard-green canvas coat walk into the lobby. I was surprised to see another person show up so late. Had he walked all the way from Barnetby? Or maybe he was one of the people who lived on the hill? He bought a ticket from the lady and then came to stand out on the platform. His dull ginger hair was messy as if he’d been out in the wind too long, and his face was noticeably tanned too. He stood right on the edge of the platform with a noticeable slouch, and shuffled from one foot to the other every few seconds. It was late and my interest in being around people was dead for the day. I hunched over my knees some more and hoped he wouldn’t stand near me. Much to my dismay, the man in the green coat came and stood at the edge of the platform to the left of the bench I was sitting on. From this distance I could hear him either talking to himself or making some weird noises with his mouth. Wrapping my hoodie even tighter over my head I stared at my feet. Peeking up I saw that he was making a side-glance in my direction. I put my bag on my lap and pretended to be looking at something inside it; anything to avoid possible eye contact with this guy. I peeked up again and he was looking back at me through his straggled hair. I rummaged in my bag some more, even taking out my dead phone and acting like I was messaging somebody. Clearly I didn’t seem disinterested enough, because the next minute he was standing beside the bench making a warm grin. “Hey, nice bag.” He chuckled. “Bet that’s from somewhere fancy!” I had to hold myself back from groaning and sounding rude, so I kept looking at my phone and shook my head. He made an exaggerated frown and laughed again “Really? You seem like such a fashionista!” Usually I’d tell him to screw off at this point, but it didn’t sound like he was being intentionally sarcastic. He was more like an embarrassing Uncle, and was making me feel just as awkward. Holding my bag tight I looked up at him and forced a smile, “No, not me.” I said. This time I finally got a better look at his badly-tanned face. He had uneven freckles and his right canine tooth was missing giving him a goofy look. I tried not to laugh at him. I don’t think he could read body language, because he kept standing there trying to talk to me. “So, where are you going?” He asked, way-too enthusiastically. I probably should have lied, but I’m not good at thinking on the spot. “My dad’s house” I told him. He took a step back and I thought he was going to leave me alone, but he stood there and shrugged before saying “Aw, going home is nice. I’m going home too.” His tone and demeanour was more relaxed, however I still didn’t feel comfortable talking to him. I went back to messing with my bag as he started grabbing at the pockets of his coat. He pulled out a familiar looking orange train ticket and waved it towards my face. “Here’s where I’m going home to. I haven’t been there for a year.” Reluctantly, I looked at what he was showing me. In bold black type it read STD, One Way, To Shroby. (I had no idea where that was.) The “From” section was blank. Surely that was a misprint, but before I had the chance to look at it again he snatched it away. “That’s great” I told him, trying to sound positive, “Home is good.” I hugged my bag, stood up from the bench and tried to shuffle back towards the doors before he could say anything else to me. But he gave me a pat on the shoulder and kept jabbering on. “Where are you going home to? Somewhere nice?” Forcing a smile I spluttered out “Just back to Lincoln.” He pursed his lips and tilted his head as if I’d said something cryptic that he had to decipher. Once again he began rummaging for something in his pockets. I was going to take my moment to get away from him but he pulled out a UK road map. It was fanned out and not properly folded, with a lot of tears at the edges. The front cover had been ripped off and a piece of lined note paper had been stapled on in its place. ‘Abel’s Map!’ was written along the top margin in red ink. Holding the map with both hands the man (who I’m guessing must have been Abel) let it flap down before folding it in half and thrusting it towards my face. “Look! Here’s where I’m from…” He was pointing at a big marker-pen circle that seemed to indicate the border where Nottinghamshire, Lincolnshire and Leicestershire counties meet. I had to squint to see it in the low light, but I could faintly make out “Shroby” in small print next to the word HOME scrawled on in marker. Abel shook the map and poked at the circled area again, “Now you can show me where you’re from!” I shook my head and held back my hands in protest, why was he making me do this? It was his map, surely he could find Lincoln on it. I knew he wouldn’t leave me alone until I gave him an answer, so I took a look at the map and hastily pointed to the bumped-out headland between Scunthorpe and Boston. “It’s around here” I said, rubbing my finger in a wide loop over that small area of the map. He whisked the map away from my face and began closely inspecting the spot I’d pointed out, “I’m not seeing it…” he started, but before he could finish I made my escape. Backing away I eventually managed to get back through the doors and into the station building. It was noticeably warmer and I was thankful for that at least. Looking back through the waiting room I could see Abel walking around in a circle still looking at his old map. I’d probably seemed rude but I wanted to be away from the guy. I checked the departure boards again but they were still blank. The lady behind the desk was fiddling with a pen and didn’t seem to have noticed me. Despite being tired of pointless conversation I went to give the Info Desk one last try. Gently tapping on the glass I simply asked “Hi, what station is this?” Ms. Incompetent snapped out of her trance, dropped the pen and looked at me again with the same old fake grin. “Where do you think it is?” “Barnetby?” I groaned. Was she really going to keep this up? The lady nodded. I rolled my eyes and took a moment to collect myself. This time I decided to ask about something else, “When is the next train to Shroby?” Her smile faltered and she looked as if she actually had to think for a second, “Where?” she asked. Maybe she didn’t hear me properly so I slowed it down “Sh-roe-bee, you just gave that man a ticket.” Instead of that smile her face morphed into a frown. The tone of her voice became less perky and she drummed her finger nails on the desk before saying “I’m sorry, I don’t know where that is.” Letting out an irritated whine I dropped my bag and asked one last time “Can you at least tell me when the next train to Lincoln is?” She bit her lip, shrugged and shook her head. Shaking, I snatched up my bag and tried not to cry again. How could she possibly know this little about the trains? It was as if she didn’t even work there. I grabbed my phone out of my bag and tried turning it on, hoping I’d have some message from dad. The screen lit up for a second to show the dead battery icon before blinking back off. I clutched the device so hard that I’m surprised I didn’t break it. It took all of my remaining self-restraint to not toss it on the floor like a disposable cup. With the last of my strength I stuck my phone in my pocket, grabbed my bag by the top handle and dragged myself back out to the cold, bleak platform. It was fully dark now, aside from the glow coming from inside. Without any light pollution the sky stretched out endlessly in all directions, and the windows of the houses almost looked like the stars overhead. Hunched over, I trudged over to the far end of the platform to be as far away from Abel as I could get. I zipped my hoodie up all the way before dropping down on the hard concrete. The pole-mounted clock was as round and bright as the moon, showing 21:15. At this time would the trains even be running to a small station like this? Over the low whir of turbine blades I could hear heavy footsteps getting louder and louder. I didn’t need this again. “You seem very down in the dumps.” Abel said, he was still loud but not as bombastic. I didn’t even budge. Maybe he’d leave me alone this time. “If it makes you feel better, I found you on my map!” Once again he waved the tatty UK Pocket Roadmap in front of me, now Lincoln was clearly written on in big blue Biro letters across the area I’d pointed out. “That’s good” I humoured him. He sat down next to me and spread the map out on the ground. “I travel a lot” he enthused “I keep losing where I am so I write it on my map.” I nodded and gave the page a quick scan, not only was the map faded and ripped but it was covered in scribbles from many different pens. He kept babbling on about what different lines were but I tuned it out. Resting my head on my knees I could feel myself zoning out again, his voice becoming a faulty radio signal dwindling in and out of focus. A sudden nudge in the arm broke me out of my trance. Abel was grinning like a proud child and shaking his blue pen in front of my eyes. “Look, look! I drew us!” he chirped. Sure enough he was pointing to a spot on the map where he’d drawn two small stick figures, one with a backpack and the other with a big coat. “That’s nice.” I yawned. “Looks good.” He clapped his hands and blurted out “Not many people talk to me, you’re my new Train-Buddy.” Abel then sighed and shrugged his shoulders, “I travel a lot but most of the time it’s like people don’t notice me.” There was a moment of silence and I just tried to pull my least-awkward grin. Abel shuffled his feet again before finally perking up “Here!” he said, pulling his Biro from his coat pocket. “Take this!” He held the pen out towards me, shaking it around like he’d done with the ticket. Hesitantly I reached out, took it from his hand and put it in the front pocket of my bag. I stammered out a “thank you.” Abel stood up again and I managed to follow suit. My body was cold and felt like a rusty machine and I clumsily stretched my aching legs and tried to regain balance. Through the stale air a sharp whistle could be heard and I immediately warmed with joy. A train! With a rush of pistons and the chug of wheels, two brilliant headlights beamed around the bend as my way home came into view. The small screen on the front clearly read LINCOLN. It was 22: 43 but at least it was here! Abel and I stood back as the train whirled to a stop, all the way along Platform 2. The double doors of the carriage clicked open inviting me inside and I pulled my bag back over one shoulder. “Goodbye Train-Buddy,” said Abel, “Get home safe!” I shot him a half-smile before taking that stride into the warmth of Carriage B, and quickly sitting down in the nearest empty window seat. As I expected, he was standing there beaming and waving at me. I returned the gesture as the doors closed and the train prepared to move on again. The lights in the station building were off and I could only faintly see the shadow of my Train-Buddy as the wheels began to tug the train forwards. The silhouette of the wind turbine still loomed over the horizon, making a dark space in front of the stars. As the train set into motion I took one last look at the houses on the hill, but the lights weren’t on anymore. While speeding away from Barnetby, it was as if it wasn’t even there. I lay back in my seat, so glad to be comfortable at last. The conductor came by to check the tickets of the few other passengers, but luckily he left me alone. I must have fallen asleep because the next thing I remember about the journey back was waking up as my pocket buzzed. I jolted awake and whipped my phone out so fast that I almost dropped it. New Message from Dad, “Where are you???” I swiped to reply and saw that he’d sent me multiple messages in the past few hours, “What time is train? Do you want lift?” and “When you getting in?” Fumbling I managed to reply, “Train was late. On way back now. Would like a lift.” Before I clicked it off again I noticed that the battery had recharged itself all the way back to 76%, a lot more than I thought it was able to. I zoned out for most of the way back, drifting off watching the lights of passing towns and cars whiz in and out of view through the window. Eventually the train pulled into a small station, fully lit with street lights which woke me from my daze. The white signpost clearly said “Barnetby.” This wasn’t the same station I’d come from, so where had I been? I must have gotten off at the wrong stop. Some passengers left and I waited for the conductor to walk past again before getting his attention and asking “Hey, where was the last station?” He took a quick look at a printed timetable before answering “Well luv, that was Habrough we just came from and it’s Market Rasen next.” I thanked him as he went back to checking the tickets of the new passengers. The conductor on the last train must have told me the wrong stop, I realised. But, where had I been then? Staying awake on the way back was a struggle but at least I knew the rest at the other end would be worth it. After what felt like a life’s journey I was stumbling out on to the platform at Lincoln Central into the familiar arms of my dad, calling out “Welcome home Sal!” Everything else that had happened that day felt like a dream as I buried myself in my old purple duvet and dropped off to sleep like a log that night. I didn’t wake up until 10:22am the next day. The lie-in was great and I actually felt alive again. My bag and hoodie were hung on my computer chair, and a cup of fresh tea was waiting on the desk next to them. Slowly rolling out of bed I got up and went to pick up the cup. As I got to the desk I realised that my mobile was still hanging out of the hoodie pocket. Its battery was fully dead so I went into my bag to get the charger for it. Sliding my hand into the bag’s pocket I felt something thin and plastic. The pen. I pulled it out and placed it on the desk. It was only a standard blue biro, half used up with a lightly chewed cap. But it felt like a foreign object that didn’t belong here, as if it shouldn’t exist away from its owner. I’d almost forgotten about Abel, he didn’t seem real now that I was fresh and fully awake. My mind snapped back to the last time this pen was used, when he drew us on to that big map of his. He’d put us at the station, but where had that actually been? Immediately curious, I set about fetching the charger and getting my phone working again. I needed to look this up. After around fifteen minutes it finally had enough juice to stay switched on. Hastily I loaded up the internet and fumbled at the touch-screen keypad. Bringing up Google Maps I searched for “Grimsby,” it loaded slowly but as soon as it did I zoomed in to find the railway. Scrolling along I followed the stations that I knew were on that route: Healing, Stallingborough, Habrough, all the way through to Barnetby. No matter how much I zoomed in or scrolled around the screen I couldn’t find a station on the line between those last two. But I knew there had to be. Unless the second conductor had also given me the wrong station names? That had to be the case, right? I’d been frustrated and tired that night, so maybe I’d gotten confused somewhere. I was about to drop it and accept my mistake, but I remembered one last thing. Clearing the search bar I typed in a new place name. “Shroby.” The screen took a few seconds to load but when it did, it didn’t jump to a new location. I wasn’t being shown the border of the three counties, only the black bar saying “No results found for your search.” I refreshed the page but it didn’t change. How was Shroby not on their map? Abel had a ticket to go there! Frantically I tried a broader web-search but the only results I could find for “Shroby” were people and not places. I looked up road maps and county maps but the town didn’t seem to exist on any of them. If this town wasn’t in the UK then where was Abel’s map from? And where was he going? What bothered me the most though, is where did I meet him?
All I could do was yell in frustration as the train left the platform without me on it. My mad dash across the bridge had been for nought, and I was left sweating and angry on Platform 2 as the 17:40 to Lincoln chugged away from the station and sped around the bend. Had my train from Grimsby not been delayed at Habrough I would’ve made my connection in plenty of time. I dropped my bag and threw my empty paper cup at the ground, not thinking about how it made me look. As if to prove my point an old couple and a sleepy-looking teenage boy stared at me like I was a crazy lady, and I can hardly blame them. I probably should have taken the direct train but it was cheaper to change at Barnetby, and according to the conductor that was where I was. I knew Barnetby was a small rural village but I was expecting the station to be bigger. This place only had two platforms, with the Information Desk and a glass-box waiting room indoors. There were a few metal benches and a pole-mounted station clock standing in the middle of Platform 2. The usual signposts denoting the station name weren’t present, but I trusted that the conductor knew the route well enough. After taking a few deep breaths I flicked my hair out of my eyes and lifted my bag on to my back. It wasn’t very big or heavy, just a small rucksack carrying my headphones, charger and whatever book I was reading at the time. The colourful stars pattern made it look like it was designed for someone younger, but it was cheap and did the job so I didn’t care. I turned and headed back over the bridge towards the main building, avoiding interacting with the few people there. The departure boards were above the Info Desk and I needed to know when my next train out of here was coming. Shuffling past a man in a grey suit and a young couple sharing headphones, I pushed through the double doors to what I guess could be called the foyer. A middle aged woman with bobbed blonde hair sat behind the glass screen. She was more over dressed than a typical ticket desk attendant, with her lazily applied pastel pink eyeshadow and overly-white teeth. Maybe she literally dressed for the job she wanted, but it made her appear stuck up and off putting. When I approached, she remained slouched across her chair looking disinterested. Ignoring her, I checked the screen showing the names and times of destinations and departures. Much to my relief a train to Lincoln would be arriving at 18:05 on Platform 2, and there would be another one at 18:15 that would go through to Nottingham. Luckily I wouldn’t have a long wait here. Not only was the station small but it was pretty isolated too, and I didn’t want to spend even one hour stuck in a place where I couldn’t even get a £2 cup of coffee. The road outside was a long flat line, stretching out on both sides until it met the horizon. There was no sign of the town, only a wind turbine and three small houses a few miles away upon the hill. Other than that, there were just crop fields surrounding the station. It wasn’t as if there was somewhere to go out and buy a magazine from. I sat down in the small waiting room and texted my train times to my dad. He replied back with a smile-emoticon and “gr8. Will pick you up.” My phone’s battery was only at 68%, but that would probably last until I got home. The only other people waiting there with me were a mum and dad with two toddlers, and a college-age girl in a hood resting a skateboard on her knees. There was a vending machine next to the door, but a paper sign stuck to the front said it was Out of Order. I took off my bag and relaxed into the grey plastic chair to idly flick through Twitter for a few minutes. A train pulled up to the platform and the small family got up and left. It was 17:55 so this one wasn’t my train, but I prepared to leave anyway. Lifting my bag by the handle, I got up and went back out to the platform. It was quieter now, the man I’d passed by and the old couple who’d watched my little tantrum were gone. The boy and girl were still there, huddled against the wall and not looking up from their MP3. I sat on the blue metal bench near the couple and messaged Dad again, “train nearly here see you soon x.” The battery icon was showing 42%, but I wouldn’t really need it once I got on the train. Before long it was 18:03 and I jumped up ready with my ticket in hand, even more eager to get back home. I watched as the station clock ticked round to 18:05 and listened out for that familiar horn. Staring in the direction I knew the train would come from I rocked back and forth on my toes impatiently. Why wasn’t the train showing up? Had there been a delay? Had there been an announcement? It got to 18:08 and the train still didn’t show. Gritting my teeth in order to prevent another public outcry, I turned sharply and marched to the Info Desk. The lady was staring into space until I knocked on the desk in front of the glass screen. “Hi,” I said, “is the train to Lincoln delayed?” She kept staring for a few seconds before blinking as if she’d just woken up. “No.” She said. “It should be here soon.” Trying not to sound forceful, I tried again “Are you sure? The board said it 18:05 and it’s way past that.” This time she only nodded. I slammed my hand on the desk a little too hard, “When is my train getting here?” I pleaded, “I need to let my dad know!” At first she was just silent, before forcing a smile and saying “It should be here soon.” I was about to ask her again, but gave up right as I opened my mouth. She was wasting my time. Huffily, I hoisted my bag over my shoulders properly and trudged back to the platform. It was still warm out, and the dry heat was making my jeans stick to my legs. My hair felt dry and all I could think of was the warm bath I would take when I got home. The next train couldn’t get there soon enough! My phone buzzed in my hoodie pocket and I whipped it out in time to see a new message from dad, “Safe travels, see you soon.” I replied to let him know “train was delayed, will be on way soon” before switching the device off to save the last 36% of charge. There was a whistle and a metallic grind and my heart leapt in relief. I looked around to see a train that was pulling up to the opposite platform. Had I read the time wrong? Because it was 18:15 and this train was definitely not going towards Nottingham. Was the departure board broken? Confused, I went back to try the lady at the Info Desk. Ms. Clueless was the same as when I last saw her, slumped over and staring lazily through the glass screen. The departure board was still showing times, but wasn’t listing any destinations. Gripping the edge of the desk I demanded answers from the nation’s worst rail employee, “What time is the next train to Lincoln? I need to know now.” She gave a wide grin that looked fake, “It should be here soon” she said in a chipper tone, “what does the board say?” The board remained blank. I gritted my teeth, “I think, it might be broken.” She didn’t respond and carried on smiling at me. This time I couldn’t hold myself back, “Tell me when the next damn train to Lincoln is!” I yelled “I need to know now, I have to get home now!” She still didn’t react. Slamming my hands on the desk, I tried again “When is my next train? Do your job and tell me!” She shrugged and said “I’m sure it’ll be here soon.” Unable to take any more of her vague and useless drivel I stormed over to the waiting room, dropped back onto the chair and cried into my lap. This isn’t what I needed today. I needed a bath and a sleep in my old bed more than ever. At least this time nobody was watching me, the girl with the skateboard wasn’t there anymore. Maybe she got on the train that just left? The sun had started to go down by then, with the orange glow beginning to bleed into the sky. Drying my tears on my sleeve I pulled my phone out again, my dad would need to know that I might be here for a while. I switched it on to be met with the Battery Only 20% notification. I swiped it away, it would be enough for this text but possibly not any more. “Train is delayed, dunno when I’ll be back now.” Quickly I turned it off again in case that would help, and immediately began looking for a plug socket. The waiting room walls were almost entirely windows, and the only visible power outlet was behind the vending machine. There was no way I could reach that. Giving up I zipped my phone back into my bag and went to stand out on the platform again. The station felt a lot more isolated now. The headphone couple were gone along with the sleepy-guy who’d been staring at me earlier. Had there been another train? They could have just left but it would have been a long walk into town, I hadn’t seen a bus or car go by for a while either. I sat back on the bench, staring eagerly at the bend in the track to the left. Hoping that, maybe soon there’d be a train coming around it to get me out of there. My eyes flicked between watching the tracks and checking the hands of the station clock. It was around 19:15 when it began to get a bit darker. The lights in the main entrance came on and the clock face lit up too. Even the lights in the houses in the distance switched on one by one. I had no idea why anyone would be living out there, miles away from the town or other people. What would they do in an emergency? Surely that wasn’t Barnetby. Instantly curious I fished out my phone again, aware that it would probably be for the last time that night. I switched it on to see it only had about 17% battery, but it was enough to let me open my Maps app. I tapped the icon that would make it jump to show my location but all it brought up was a blank space. Scrolling around didn’t bring up any place names or landmarks either. As the battery was low it was possibly glitching so I tried reloading the app again. But this time the “unable to find your location” message popped up. At this point I knew it was pointless to try again, so I just gave up and put the phone back. The heat of the day finally began to fade and the evening chill was welcome to me. I still listened out in hopes for a train, but the air was quiet and dead. Nothing but the stirrings of birds and the low hum of the turbine from a few miles away. I covered my head with my hood and rested my face in my hands. All I could think about was dinner and my old bed which I couldn’t get back to soon enough. I could feel myself drifting off as I stared out at the fields again. My head kept sliding out of my hands and I’d snap myself back into focus. I must have been super tired because at one point I started seeing things. The tall crops started to look like waves and the lights in the houses turned off and on in what looked like a pattern. My sleepy daze was cut short by the sound of the heavy front doors scraping open. Curious, I looked around through the windows of the waiting room. Was someone else here to get a train? With the lights all on inside, I saw a short man in a mustard-green canvas coat walk into the lobby. I was surprised to see another person show up so late. Had he walked all the way from Barnetby? Or maybe he was one of the people who lived on the hill? He bought a ticket from the lady and then came to stand out on the platform. His dull ginger hair was messy as if he’d been out in the wind too long, and his face was noticeably tanned too. He stood right on the edge of the platform with a noticeable slouch, and shuffled from one foot to the other every few seconds. It was late and my interest in being around people was dead for the day. I hunched over my knees some more and hoped he wouldn’t stand near me. Much to my dismay, the man in the green coat came and stood at the edge of the platform to the left of the bench I was sitting on. From this distance I could hear him either talking to himself or making some weird noises with his mouth. Wrapping my hoodie even tighter over my head I stared at my feet. Peeking up I saw that he was making a side-glance in my direction. I put my bag on my lap and pretended to be looking at something inside it; anything to avoid possible eye contact with this guy. I peeked up again and he was looking back at me through his straggled hair. I rummaged in my bag some more, even taking out my dead phone and acting like I was messaging somebody. Clearly I didn’t seem disinterested enough, because the next minute he was standing beside the bench making a warm grin. “Hey, nice bag.” He chuckled. “Bet that’s from somewhere fancy!” I had to hold myself back from groaning and sounding rude, so I kept looking at my phone and shook my head. He made an exaggerated frown and laughed again “Really? You seem like such a fashionista!” Usually I’d tell him to screw off at this point, but it didn’t sound like he was being intentionally sarcastic. He was more like an embarrassing Uncle, and was making me feel just as awkward. Holding my bag tight I looked up at him and forced a smile, “No, not me.” I said. This time I finally got a better look at his badly-tanned face. He had uneven freckles and his right canine tooth was missing giving him a goofy look. I tried not to laugh at him. I don’t think he could read body language, because he kept standing there trying to talk to me. “So, where are you going?” He asked, way-too enthusiastically. I probably should have lied, but I’m not good at thinking on the spot. “My dad’s house” I told him. He took a step back and I thought he was going to leave me alone, but he stood there and shrugged before saying “Aw, going home is nice. I’m going home too.” His tone and demeanour was more relaxed, however I still didn’t feel comfortable talking to him. I went back to messing with my bag as he started grabbing at the pockets of his coat. He pulled out a familiar looking orange train ticket and waved it towards my face. “Here’s where I’m going home to. I haven’t been there for a year.” Reluctantly, I looked at what he was showing me. In bold black type it read STD, One Way, To Shroby. (I had no idea where that was.) The “From” section was blank. Surely that was a misprint, but before I had the chance to look at it again he snatched it away. “That’s great” I told him, trying to sound positive, “Home is good.” I hugged my bag, stood up from the bench and tried to shuffle back towards the doors before he could say anything else to me. But he gave me a pat on the shoulder and kept jabbering on. “Where are you going home to? Somewhere nice?” Forcing a smile I spluttered out “Just back to Lincoln.” He pursed his lips and tilted his head as if I’d said something cryptic that he had to decipher. Once again he began rummaging for something in his pockets. I was going to take my moment to get away from him but he pulled out a UK road map. It was fanned out and not properly folded, with a lot of tears at the edges. The front cover had been ripped off and a piece of lined note paper had been stapled on in its place. ‘Abel’s Map!’ was written along the top margin in red ink. Holding the map with both hands the man (who I’m guessing must have been Abel) let it flap down before folding it in half and thrusting it towards my face. “Look! Here’s where I’m from…” He was pointing at a big marker-pen circle that seemed to indicate the border where Nottinghamshire, Lincolnshire and Leicestershire counties meet. I had to squint to see it in the low light, but I could faintly make out “Shroby” in small print next to the word HOME scrawled on in marker. Abel shook the map and poked at the circled area again, “Now you can show me where you’re from!” I shook my head and held back my hands in protest, why was he making me do this? It was his map, surely he could find Lincoln on it. I knew he wouldn’t leave me alone until I gave him an answer, so I took a look at the map and hastily pointed to the bumped-out headland between Scunthorpe and Boston. “It’s around here” I said, rubbing my finger in a wide loop over that small area of the map. He whisked the map away from my face and began closely inspecting the spot I’d pointed out, “I’m not seeing it…” he started, but before he could finish I made my escape. Backing away I eventually managed to get back through the doors and into the station building. It was noticeably warmer and I was thankful for that at least. Looking back through the waiting room I could see Abel walking around in a circle still looking at his old map. I’d probably seemed rude but I wanted to be away from the guy. I checked the departure boards again but they were still blank. The lady behind the desk was fiddling with a pen and didn’t seem to have noticed me. Despite being tired of pointless conversation I went to give the Info Desk one last try. Gently tapping on the glass I simply asked “Hi, what station is this?” Ms. Incompetent snapped out of her trance, dropped the pen and looked at me again with the same old fake grin. “Where do you think it is?” “Barnetby?” I groaned. Was she really going to keep this up? The lady nodded. I rolled my eyes and took a moment to collect myself. This time I decided to ask about something else, “When is the next train to Shroby?” Her smile faltered and she looked as if she actually had to think for a second, “Where?” she asked. Maybe she didn’t hear me properly so I slowed it down “Sh-roe-bee, you just gave that man a ticket.” Instead of that smile her face morphed into a frown. The tone of her voice became less perky and she drummed her finger nails on the desk before saying “I’m sorry, I don’t know where that is.” Letting out an irritated whine I dropped my bag and asked one last time “Can you at least tell me when the next train to Lincoln is?” She bit her lip, shrugged and shook her head. Shaking, I snatched up my bag and tried not to cry again. How could she possibly know this little about the trains? It was as if she didn’t even work there. I grabbed my phone out of my bag and tried turning it on, hoping I’d have some message from dad. The screen lit up for a second to show the dead battery icon before blinking back off. I clutched the device so hard that I’m surprised I didn’t break it. It took all of my remaining self-restraint to not toss it on the floor like a disposable cup. With the last of my strength I stuck my phone in my pocket, grabbed my bag by the top handle and dragged myself back out to the cold, bleak platform. It was fully dark now, aside from the glow coming from inside. Without any light pollution the sky stretched out endlessly in all directions, and the windows of the houses almost looked like the stars overhead. Hunched over, I trudged over to the far end of the platform to be as far away from Abel as I could get. I zipped my hoodie up all the way before dropping down on the hard concrete. The pole-mounted clock was as round and bright as the moon, showing 21:15. At this time would the trains even be running to a small station like this? Over the low whir of turbine blades I could hear heavy footsteps getting louder and louder. I didn’t need this again. “You seem very down in the dumps.” Abel said, he was still loud but not as bombastic. I didn’t even budge. Maybe he’d leave me alone this time. “If it makes you feel better, I found you on my map!” Once again he waved the tatty UK Pocket Roadmap in front of me, now Lincoln was clearly written on in big blue Biro letters across the area I’d pointed out. “That’s good” I humoured him. He sat down next to me and spread the map out on the ground. “I travel a lot” he enthused “I keep losing where I am so I write it on my map.” I nodded and gave the page a quick scan, not only was the map faded and ripped but it was covered in scribbles from many different pens. He kept babbling on about what different lines were but I tuned it out. Resting my head on my knees I could feel myself zoning out again, his voice becoming a faulty radio signal dwindling in and out of focus. A sudden nudge in the arm broke me out of my trance. Abel was grinning like a proud child and shaking his blue pen in front of my eyes. “Look, look! I drew us!” he chirped. Sure enough he was pointing to a spot on the map where he’d drawn two small stick figures, one with a backpack and the other with a big coat. “That’s nice.” I yawned. “Looks good.” He clapped his hands and blurted out “Not many people talk to me, you’re my new Train-Buddy.” Abel then sighed and shrugged his shoulders, “I travel a lot but most of the time it’s like people don’t notice me.” There was a moment of silence and I just tried to pull my least-awkward grin. Abel shuffled his feet again before finally perking up “Here!” he said, pulling his Biro from his coat pocket. “Take this!” He held the pen out towards me, shaking it around like he’d done with the ticket. Hesitantly I reached out, took it from his hand and put it in the front pocket of my bag. I stammered out a “thank you.” Abel stood up again and I managed to follow suit. My body was cold and felt like a rusty machine and I clumsily stretched my aching legs and tried to regain balance. Through the stale air a sharp whistle could be heard and I immediately warmed with joy. A train! With a rush of pistons and the chug of wheels, two brilliant headlights beamed around the bend as my way home came into view. The small screen on the front clearly read LINCOLN. It was 22: 43 but at least it was here! Abel and I stood back as the train whirled to a stop, all the way along Platform 2. The double doors of the carriage clicked open inviting me inside and I pulled my bag back over one shoulder. “Goodbye Train-Buddy,” said Abel, “Get home safe!” I shot him a half-smile before taking that stride into the warmth of Carriage B, and quickly sitting down in the nearest empty window seat. As I expected, he was standing there beaming and waving at me. I returned the gesture as the doors closed and the train prepared to move on again. The lights in the station building were off and I could only faintly see the shadow of my Train-Buddy as the wheels began to tug the train forwards. The silhouette of the wind turbine still loomed over the horizon, making a dark space in front of the stars. As the train set into motion I took one last look at the houses on the hill, but the lights weren’t on anymore. While speeding away from Barnetby, it was as if it wasn’t even there. I lay back in my seat, so glad to be comfortable at last. The conductor came by to check the tickets of the few other passengers, but luckily he left me alone. I must have fallen asleep because the next thing I remember about the journey back was waking up as my pocket buzzed. I jolted awake and whipped my phone out so fast that I almost dropped it. New Message from Dad, “Where are you???” I swiped to reply and saw that he’d sent me multiple messages in the past few hours, “What time is train? Do you want lift?” and “When you getting in?” Fumbling I managed to reply, “Train was late. On way back now. Would like a lift.” Before I clicked it off again I noticed that the battery had recharged itself all the way back to 76%, a lot more than I thought it was able to. I zoned out for most of the way back, drifting off watching the lights of passing towns and cars whiz in and out of view through the window. Eventually the train pulled into a small station, fully lit with street lights which woke me from my daze. The white signpost clearly said “Barnetby.” This wasn’t the same station I’d come from, so where had I been? I must have gotten off at the wrong stop. Some passengers left and I waited for the conductor to walk past again before getting his attention and asking “Hey, where was the last station?” He took a quick look at a printed timetable before answering “Well luv, that was Habrough we just came from and it’s Market Rasen next.” I thanked him as he went back to checking the tickets of the new passengers. The conductor on the last train must have told me the wrong stop, I realised. But, where had I been then? Staying awake on the way back was a struggle but at least I knew the rest at the other end would be worth it. After what felt like a life’s journey I was stumbling out on to the platform at Lincoln Central into the familiar arms of my dad, calling out “Welcome home Sal!” Everything else that had happened that day felt like a dream as I buried myself in my old purple duvet and dropped off to sleep like a log that night. I didn’t wake up until 10:22am the next day. The lie-in was great and I actually felt alive again. My bag and hoodie were hung on my computer chair, and a cup of fresh tea was waiting on the desk next to them. Slowly rolling out of bed I got up and went to pick up the cup. As I got to the desk I realised that my mobile was still hanging out of the hoodie pocket. Its battery was fully dead so I went into my bag to get the charger for it. Sliding my hand into the bag’s pocket I felt something thin and plastic. The pen. I pulled it out and placed it on the desk. It was only a standard blue biro, half used up with a lightly chewed cap. But it felt like a foreign object that didn’t belong here, as if it shouldn’t exist away from its owner. I’d almost forgotten about Abel, he didn’t seem real now that I was fresh and fully awake. My mind snapped back to the last time this pen was used, when he drew us on to that big map of his. He’d put us at the station, but where had that actually been? Immediately curious, I set about fetching the charger and getting my phone working again. I needed to look this up. After around fifteen minutes it finally had enough juice to stay switched on. Hastily I loaded up the internet and fumbled at the touch-screen keypad. Bringing up Google Maps I searched for “Grimsby,” it loaded slowly but as soon as it did I zoomed in to find the railway. Scrolling along I followed the stations that I knew were on that route: Healing, Stallingborough, Habrough, all the way through to Barnetby. No matter how much I zoomed in or scrolled around the screen I couldn’t find a station on the line between those last two. But I knew there had to be. Unless the second conductor had also given me the wrong station names? That had to be the case, right? I’d been frustrated and tired that night, so maybe I’d gotten confused somewhere. I was about to drop it and accept my mistake, but I remembered one last thing. Clearing the search bar I typed in a new place name. “Shroby.” The screen took a few seconds to load but when it did, it didn’t jump to a new location. I wasn’t being shown the border of the three counties, only the black bar saying “No results found for your search.” I refreshed the page but it didn’t change. How was Shroby not on their map? Abel had a ticket to go there! Frantically I tried a broader web-search but the only results I could find for “Shroby” were people and not places. I looked up road maps and county maps but the town didn’t seem to exist on any of them. If this town wasn’t in the UK then where was Abel’s map from? And where was he going? What bothered me the most though, is where did I meet him?
Hey! I saw in the sidebar that we needed a bedding basics guide. The General rule of bedding comes down to this: Materials Matter. There are materials that will offer a high quality, durable product, and there are materials that will offer an often softer, but less durable product. It all depends on what you're going for. Bed While there are thousands of conversations about which mattress you should by (/BuyItForLife can assist there) there aren't as many for what bed. While not every space needs a bed most do. First, consider the look you want:
Live in a white-wall vanilla econobox apartment? I would suggest the Malm for now - it's cheap, looks aite, and you can dress it up later when you move into a place with more character and not feel bad because it's like $200 or something. Sheets A "Set" of sheets includes:
Top Sheet
Fitted Sheet
Assorted Pillowcases
With sheets everyone is always concerned about thread count. Sure, 1000 threadcount sheets will feel better than 150, but it's not the biggest factor. I stand behind the fact that material is the most important factor in choosing sheets. 100% cotton sheets in 300 thread count will be just fine for most of us. A sheet set in a queen size will probably run around $50. If that's all you care for sheets, then skip the rest of this section. Here are a list of other bed sheet materials and my thoughts on them.
Cotton. Durable and basic, 100% cotton sheets usually wrinkle like crazy and come out of the dryer looking like a crumpled newspaper. Even the "wrinkle resistant" cotton sheets being offered now are still very wrinkled. - jwax33
Synthetics. Polyester, Rayon, etc. Synthetic blend sheets can greatly reduce the price of the sheet set, so if you see a good bargain, check the blend. If you're in a pinch, you can make room for ~25% poly blend and still have okay sheets. Cotton/poly blends come out almost looking ironed. If you want neat sheets, consider a blend if you can find one. Blend sheets also tend to last forever.
Jersey Knit. Give them a try if you're up for it. The material is Rayon (modal) so don't expect them to last long or keep you cool, but they will be very comfortable. These would make a great winter set of sheets. At the first sign of pilling, pitch them, as their low-cost means you can just get another set. These also come in more colors than typical sheets, so they can be fun as well.
Flannel The ultimate in winter-mode bed sheeting/ continuous rustic feel. Flannel is a heavy-woven wool or worsted yarn textile that will really keep the heat. If you're in a hot climate, move along.
Linen/Satin 100% cotton sateen, Linen sheets are the softest of the cotton sheets. They'll hold up well and stay soft for a long time, and have a little shine to them. Because they're cotton, expect a higher cost compared to synthetics.
Egyptian Cotton The king of the sheets. Durable, comfortable and widely available, Egyptian Cotton sheets are spun from [duh, egyptian cotton] cotton that has long fibers, which reduces pilling, lint and increases softness. With good care, a quality set of Egyptian Cotton sheets will last decades. Additionally, because the strands are thinner, go for a higher thread count, say, 600-850.
Source1Source 2 I expect there to be some debate on this, so let me hear it in the comments! Pillows I fucking love pillows. That said, here is my research on them. Pillow types:
Back Sleeper - Firm and not too large
Side Sleeper - largest pillow type
Front Sleeper - do you even need a pillow?
Now, some pillow materials.
Goose Down/Down general Goose down/down pillows offer amazing comfort and support. They have the perfect amount of "fluff" but still keep their shape. I have 7 pillows on my bed, and I always fish around for one of my down pillows before falling asleep on it. They're generally the most expensive type of pillow, but also the best, as down washes well and is durable, if care is taken. A less expensive option is to go Feather (instead of down) but I usually have to double-case mine because I get pricked.
Memory Foam As seen on TV! Memory foam varies as widely as it's customers perceptions. I recommend borrowing or testing out these pillows before purchasing one. Some hate it, some love it, it's all up to you. Memory Foam offers great support, and can be nice and cool, but I've often found them to be too firm.
PolyesteCotton fill Cheap and basic pillow. Poly/cotton fill pillows don't hold their shape too well, but can be a welcome find in that middle-of-the-night-why-am-I-not-comfy fuss. Depending on how they're filled, they can offer amazing support. Poly pillows will be warmer than cotton, so if you're a 'cool' sleeper, take note. Durability isn't this pillow's strong suit, as they'll lose their shape. <(jwax33)> Poly fiber fill pillows do not wash well -- they tend to mat and get very dense. If you like dense pillows, this is fine. I find that great for side sleeping, so I get the old poly pillows in the house. If you need fluffy, poly pillows will probably be disposable. Keeping them covered will extend their lifespan.
I defer to this Ikea buying guide for more information as well as this very in-depth guide on pillows Blankets I'll summarize by saying blankets follow the general gist of bedding: Materials Matter. That said, I have only one thing to say about blankets.
If you are in a cold climate, nut up and get a fucking wool blanket. Wool is the best material for durability, longevity and warmth, hands down. The reason I am here today is because I survived my college house with paper-thin walls and a shit heater through a Michigan winter on two wool blankets. They can be found many places, but Pendleton is a great choice, as is Woolrich. One of my wool blankets is pushing 40 years old, in case you were wondering. Expect prices for 100% wool blankets to go over $100. Also, design-wise, wool is a great texture to decorate with, and works well in most design styles.
Comforters Comforters follow the same lines as Pillows as far as materials. Down being the best material, followed by cotton, followed by synthetic fill. Warmer climates can get away with a simple low-fill cotton or poly, but for those of us with mittens in our wardrobes, Down is the best. If you are fortunate to get two comforters, get one for cold (heavy fill) and one for warm (low fill/cotton/synth). A basic medium fill down comforter should run over $100. note get one that is panel-stitched, otherwise you'll end up with all of the down clumping in one area and generally pissing you off. Duvet Duvet's are the pillowcases for comforters. I've seen talk before of people just buying comforters, waiting until they get dirty and pitching/re-buying, but let's be real here. A nice duvet can extend the life of your comforter many times over. Not to mention, Duvets give you another opportunity to add a design element to your bedroom. There's less of a concern with Duvet's over thread count, as you're not always snuggling right up next to it, but material choice still plays a role here. Color I personally like and recommend plain white for sheets and towels (excluding decorative towels if you need them). White sheets can be bought in a variety of fabric patterns, such as tone-on-tone stripes or damasks to break up the monotony of white. But, your bed should be covered with something, a duvet or comforter for example, and that should provide the color and style you want, not your sheets. White sheets can be washed in hot water and bleached without fear. Same thing for white towels. Especially useful if you entertain a lot. - jwax33 Shopping It's hard to recommend specific stores, so I will just make some general points. Avoid department stores and your big box linen stores like Bed, Bath, and Beyond unless they are having a 75% off white sale. Their prices are usually marked up staggeringly. For example, a no-name 100% cotton bath sheet at Macy's dropped my jaw at $65. A few weeks later I picked up no-name 100% cotton bath sheets (of a heavier weight) at Costco of all places for $11.99. So be mindful of markup when you shop. Shopping for linens online can be hard because you cannot see or touch the item and have to rely solely on a description to tell you how good the product is. Pay attention to details, check any reviews, and make sure you can return the product easily if needed. - jwax33 So, let's hear your thoughts on bedding. I think I've covered the basics, but if there's something you'd like to add, I can discuss/make edits!
Double bedding sets and duvet covers for a new bedroom look. Update the look of your bedroom with a new double bedding set or duvet cover from this huge range of options. Choose from patterned or plain duvet sets in loads of different colours and materials, and pick the perfect new home bedding to suit you. Quality materials Duvets - Our selection of duvets and duvet covers is extensive. Choose from a wide choice of cheap bedding sets in many different designs, in single, double or king size. We also stock duvets for all seasons. Choose from 4.5 tog in the summer months, to a super warm 15 Tog from Coloroll. Deciding on a duvet set when you share a bed can be hard but with B&M's wide range of cheap double duvet sets, the choice has never been easier. Explore our extensive range of duvet cover sets, we have something for every style, including warming teddy fleece duvet sets, classic plain dye bedding or printed & stripes and even add some glamour with our crushed velvet or Diamante bedding sets. All our quality duvet & bedding sets come in range of sizes including Size, Double, King Size and even Super King. Show. Sort By. Set Descending Duvet Sets. Browse our range of Modern, Traditional and Contemporary Duvet Sets, many with matching curtains & accessories and available in Single, Double, King Size and some Duvets are now available in Super King. All matching curtains are pencil pleat unless otherwise stated. We have bedding ranges from Linda Barker, Julian Charles, Twiggy We stock all cheap duvet cover sizes including single, double and king-sized duvet sets in a range of colours, styles and patterns. We regularly update our range of cheap duvet covers and sets to stay on seasonal trends, with a large selection available both online and in store, all at discounted prices from the original RRP. Our double bedding sets come in a multitude of different patterns. We carry geometric designs suitable for modern decor, as well as those particularly stunning in a traditional setting. We have stripes, spots, themed, checked and plain patterns. You'll also love our patchwork duvet covers that look like quilts of yesteryear. Also, consider our semi-plain duvet covers, which add a bit of We stock cheap duvets, allowing you to have one for each season and change them regularly without breaking the bank. From a 10.5 tog that feels like down to a thick, warm 15 tog duvet, we have the right duvet for you. We stock Silent Night for luxury duvets and even sell cheap duvets as part of a set that is specially designed for students and includes two free pillows.Bed covers for children Shop Duvet Covers & Bedding Sets online at Matalan & discover a wide range of colours, prints, sizes and fabrics. Our duvet cover sets are practical too. Many can be tumble dried and go from toddler bedding sets right up to super king duvet covers. Our beds are amongst our favourite places in the world and after a long day you just want to curl up under the covers. Match your fresh duvet cover set with a pair of freshly plumped luxury pillows. These soft
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