A Body on the Line

I ventured south yesterday. A fleeting visit. More fleeting than intended, in fact. I was supposed to arrive in time for lunch with my editor and agent, which I was looking forward to, but my train was cancelled. As was the one before and the one after it. I did eventually catch a train and ended up standing in the buffet car along with many of the other (mostly) good natured passengers without seats.

When I arrived in London, I then raced over to Orion House smelling like bacon sandwiches. I missed lunch, but my lovely editor organised something else and then told me how great The Child Thief is, so it's all good.

Apparently a man's body was discovered in a disused station on the line.

That's why I missed lunch.

Someone died.

It was inconvenient for me, but it wasn't the end of the world and . . . y'know, we're talking about a body, not leaves on the track. If we can't stop our endless rush rush rush for that, then there's no hope for any of us, is there?