Digestive travel

Amusing phone conversation I overheard today. A young man was explaining to a friend that, to travel to Paris for the weekend, she first had to ‘get the train to St Pancreas’.

No place to take a train

Now it’s certainly true that there are aspects of St Pancras station that occasionally make me bilious, but I’d have thought a weekend in Paris might have more effect on the liver than the pancreas. Who knows, though? I suppose it depends on exactly what they choose to eat. And drink.

As it happens, the idea of sneaking off to Paris for the weekend evoked many pleasant memories for me. Before Danielle and I decided that we really couldn’t afford the phone or travel costs and moved into together, and long before we decided that we ought to legitimise by marriage the bump that would eventually turn into a Michael, we used to meet there regularly. It was about as inconvenient for her, travelling from Eastern France, as for me, travelling from London.

Have to say it wasn’t my pancreas that took the worst beating during those weekends.

But I hadn’t finished with the young man’s travel recommendations. ‘You then have to catch the Euro Tunnel.’

Now that’s the kind of idea I enjoy, because it sets me musing.

Who’d be throwing the tunnel, exactly?

Could it become an Olympic event? ‘Nah, I gave up on the discus and javelin. I throw the tunnel now.’

And what strength do you need to catch a tunnel? After all, it’s basically a long hole, which is presumably weightless. On the other hand, it doesn’t offer much purchase, much to hold on to. Intriguing problem.

Curious the kind of people you can find to raise challenging philosophical conundrums.

Or should that be conundra?