..by the skin of my knuckles (aka yet another rant about public transport)

It was the duck's fault.

More specifically, a red duck made of thin bauble-like glass which had decided to break free from it's sellotape shackles below the picture frame.

In my actions of clearing up the broken glass to prevent unaware toes from unexpected pain, I made myself a little later for leaving than I would have liked, but still to stand across the road and see a 49 minutes past sail away at 47 minutes past was annoying.

More annoying, however, was the almost 25 minute wait at the nearby bus stop for a different bus, missing 2 buses out (and then of course 3 came at once oh yes). So it was 6.12. My train to Eastbourne (to get to a dinner with new employment on time) was at 6.32. How was I going to do this?

Much muttering and moaning under my breath later (at people's dithering when getting on and off), the bus did manage to get to st Peter's Church by 6.25 somehow.

I ran up Trafalgar Street, not caring what I looked like, and arrived at the station at 6.27 (either I ran darn quick or our timepieces are not entirely aligned).

For complicated and boring financial reasons, I could not pay by card. I only had a £20 note to buy a ticket with. Those waiting for an amusing description of a £20 note being inserted 48 different ways without success, will be disappointed as it accepted it first time, but it did have no excuse, however, for giving me £12.10 change in 12 x £1 and 1 x 10p coins. Still rushing madly, desperate to catch the train, while retrieving all of my change, I scraped my hand several times on the flappy thing on the change/ticket collection point. As I burst through the barrier and reached my train, I noticed a thin trickle of blood working its way down the back of my right hand.

Still puffing and panting, I fell onto the train, a mess of quite literally blood, sweat and tears.