Steam train in Stowmarket?

John had to pick the sm. boy up from school on Friday afternoon. Since I wasn't quite finished with work, I stayed late and took the train home. When I got to Bury station, there were a lot more people than there usually are on the platforms. "Must be the bank holiday weekend," I thought.

And then I noticed the two old people sitting on lawn chairs on the opposite platform. Um, what?

The train arrived (on time, thank you British Rail), and we left the station. As we came out of Bury, every level crossing, random field, ditch, and footpath was full of people clutching SLRs, fancy video cameras, tripods, and children. Some in lawn chairs, some not. Thurston and Elmswell stations, same thing.

I figured they weren't all there to watch the 6:25 from Cambridge to Ipswich (my train), so as the conductor came by, I asked what they were all waiting for.

"OH!," he said, "Coming along behind us is a brand-new steam engine. With a full load of carriages!"

I texted John, who was walking down the hill to meet me at the station. He'd already left, though, so we ended up without the SLR. So here is the "holy moly it's going fast" picture from my little Casio, which made a valiant effort, I think.

Here she is, in all her 75mph and slightly blurry glory. The Tornado.

While not out trainspotting, I've been trying to decide what to do with this yarn. I Had To Have It in the store but am now not entirely sure what to do with it. I don't really like knitted socks (too itchy) and I don't wear shawls. Maybe a "fake-isle" hat once it starts to get cold again. Or if it doesn't get warm. Today, June 1, we have the heating on and I'm wearing jeans, a hoodie, and slippers. Brrrrr. Granted, John and I both have colds, but still.

I also just finished a few great books: Fire, by Kristin Cashore, which I didn't like quite as much as Graceling but was still fantastic; The Magic Thief, by Sarah Prineas (recommended by Kristin), which was a little Philip Pullman-esque and very good; Innocent Traitor, by Alison Weir, which was riveting and rather heartbreaking, and The Children's Book, by A.S. Byatt. I didn't like The Children's Book as much as the others, but it wasn't bad. Embarrassingly, my book group also read The Book Lovers' Appreciation Society. There were a few tolerable ones, anyway. Mostly, though, it was filled with overly sentimental drivel. At least they were short!