The Train South

The train south. We're heading into the belly of the beast, we agree. We heading into the great maw. We'll need to take special measures to survive.

We check our survival kit. Do we have our bottle of gin? Check. Of Plymouth Gin? Of course! What else? Now, books. What have I brought?, W. asks me. Ah, Georges Bataille, good. Inner Experience. Guilty: nothing better. And Simone Weil! A wild card. What drew me to her? What was she doing on my bookshelf? Perhaps there's something serious about me after all, he says. He's brought Karl Polyani, he says. We'll need Karl Polyani in the south.

Plymouth's in the south, of course, we acknowledge, but not in the south south. Plymouth's in the southwest, which is entirely different. In fact, W. thinks of Plymouth as being part of the north. In his mind, it's as far north in England as Newcastle is, he says.

And what about our supplies? Do we have any rations? A variety of snacks, I tell W. Snacks from many lands. W. approves. It's a long journey, he says.