Here's the thing: I'm not going anywhere.
I shouldn't have given that impression at the end of the last post. As regular readers (hello you!) will know, I am prone to bouts of depression and misery. It's one of those things that makes me the special snowflake I am.
Sometimes it spills over into the blog, though I try to stop it from doing so. The last post was one of those times. I'd had a long stressful day. Anytime I can't stick to my planned out itinerary I become anxious (the week before I had to skip out of a showing of Skyfall because we missed the time we'd planned; if I'm missing out on a Bond film, you know it's bad) and the whole East Coast fiasco was preying on my mind. Sitting on that lonely station at Bishop Auckland I felt down and miserable, and writing it up a few days later, I felt down and miserable again. I should have ended on an up note. A knob gag or something.
Point is, I'm sorry if I got you all sympathetic, and lovely though your comments are, I'm thoroughly embarrassed. Even the promise of a hug off a certain reader hasn't quashed the shame. I promise it wasn't a begging post looking for ego-boosts, honestly. If I was after that I'd have just posted a naked pic (HAHAHAHAHA).
Today I booked a trip for next week, just before Christmas, so I can collect half a dozen stations on the other side of the country. So please check back to read the write up of that journey. I'm not going anywhere. Except Lincolnshire.