9.28 To Manchester Victoria

Off we rattle through the snowy landscape, raucous male laughter behind me, female in front. I mistakenly thought the 9.28 would be quiet on a Saturday morning. Obviously people make early starts to go and do whatever it is they're going to do, and the train is soon full. Just laid down on t'bench. Just laid down on t'bench. Never expected that! laughs one of the male voices. I have slight indigestion and haven't slept well, but I feel OK. Anybody else? asks the ticket man with the curious shuffling walk reminiscent of a mechanical toy. Sunlight on snow-whitened rooftops. A heavy dusting. My reflection in the train window, a little tousled from my hat. Thinking about the coffee or tea I'll drink when I get to the John Dalton building where my personality development seminar is taking place. Today it's pregnancy and birth. A large group of ladies travelling together. One of the younger ones approaches some of the others with a clutch of plastic glasses containing slices of lemon, and little cans of, I'm guessing, gin and tonic or similar. One woman refuses, others accept. It's 9.50am. I don't want to! repeats Dylan, a small child sitting on his Dad's lap next to his Mum who is next to me. Mum says eventually please stop saying you don't want to, and for moments at a time he does. She tells him she's going to buy him a new hat. He says he wants his Thomas one, and she assures him he'll have this too, though I detect subterfuge. Dylan returns to the litany of don't want tos, begins to cough. Mum tells him they're going to see the pretty lights. A group of geese congregate on the snow-covered ice in the middle of a large pond.

It is at about this time that a group of young men boards the train, many of them holding beer or cider cans, many of them sporting hooded sweatshirts emblazoned with the words English Defence League and a little shield with the words No surrender above it, and below to Al Qaeda. On the back of these sweatshirts are the words Rochdale division. Dylan's Mum intones oh my Lord under her breath, and Dylan falls silent. All the young men have very short hair, all wear dark clothing that doesn't look quite warm enough, some woolly hats, one a hood up. They are between 16 and 35 as far as I can tell, with the majority being 18-25. And they are very loud. The train is full and they are standing in the aisle and around the door, and seem to feel the need to conduct their conversations by shouting. Once or twice one of them chants EDL! but mostly I cannot detect any obviously offensive or 'political' content to their conversation, except a snippet about mosques being breeding grounds - I don't hear for what but I can guess. Then I hear not all mosques. I think maybe one of them has engaged a fellow-traveller in conversation, or perhaps been asked about the regalia, and is attempting to appear reasonable. What is most offensive is their loud and aggressive energy, the space they take up physically and psychically, and the swilling of beer and cider at 10 in the morning. I imagine they are going on a demonstration, and will drink all day long. I imagine there will be disturbances later. Or maybe they're just going to see Man United play. I enclose myself in a psychic bubble, look mostly out of the window. Look forward to getting to Victoria.