This morning, Betty woke up in a great hurry but a little bit late, and she had to race through her ablutions and leap onto the bus, which she did. When the bus arrived in the city it stopped, as the last-minute bus always does, around the corner from the train station. Betty scampered down beside the ship’s chandlery, which is almost her favourite place in the city, because it has brass diving bells and folding hooks in the windows, and then she paused briefly to buy an apple muffin, which she does at every opportunity, and then she went into the train station, which is a very impressive place. She was four minutes early for the train, which gave her time to eat her apple muffin, and then she got into carriage 2 with a few other people, and the train set off.

It begins by going through a longish tunnel, and there are signs at short intervals indicating in pictorial form whether one should run forwards or backwards to get out, which has never been applicable, and then it goes over a bridge that skims across a very tiny bay. Betty’s train, however, stopped before the bridge, as if to wait for a cow, and then it went a little bit further and stopped again, and then it went to the middle of the bridge and stopped altogether. And then the conductress walked ceremoniously down the length of the carriages, while Betty and the other passengers smiled encouragingly, and when she got to the middle of carriage 2 she told everyone that the train driver, despite trying very hard, had been unable to persuade the train to keep going.

By some dint of effort or rescue, the train eventually started going backwards, and it returned Betty and the other passengers to the station. There was a replacement train on another platform, and the conductress took most of the passengers under her wing and marched them onto it, but as it was already too late for Betty to get to church, she merely sent a message to the pastor telling him what had happened. He replied thusly:


and Betty went to the home of the boy person fiancé, who was at home with the sniffles, and made herself mushrooms and spinach on toast before she had to go to work. Such adventures.

In which Betty tells about some things she has been doing

Betty has been remiss, tardy, absent, lazy; a slacker, a vacant space, a write-off, indeed, practically, blogwise, the mistress of her own demise. It isn’t that she’s been sitting about painting her toe-nails (a family term for absolute slothful indulgence, though, Betty hastens to point out, she does indeed keep her toe-nails polished most of the time: people do it around here, it lasts for weeks, and anyway, it’s a free country). No, Betty has been far from idle: in addition to working like a crazy woman seven days a week, she has also killed a friend’s car, which she does not recommend. It was no good anyway and it died, barely a fortnight before its owner was to return from overseas, which Betty felt was a bit rich. She has made romantic train journeys to the home of her youth, which is lovely fun; she has lectured for half a semester and worn stockings every Thursday.

She has also become gloriously engaged to the boy person friend. In a scene too tender for the interwebs, but which Betty will say was most romantically devised, the boy person friend, his knee, and a sapphire ring colluded to steal Betty’s heart, and her wobbly eyes, the late evening light, and the expansive park all welled up joyfully and said yes.

And in all the excitement she has not blogged at all, but she plans to make amends.

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