Blood on the bathroom floor

By 4pm, I'd been on two trains: one short and one long.

On the second train, I had involuntarily found myself in a slightly racist conversation with a fellow passenger.

It went something like this:

3pm: I finished my customary travel Wispa and Diet Coke.

3.30pm: Train delays were being blamed on black people.

3.55pm: I arrived at what I suspected was the scene of my impending murder.

4pm: Storm Barney was in full force and I'd started to feel unsettled.

I was heading towards my regular exam B&B. A different exam, the same B&B.

As I stepped out onto the platform, I noticed the place had a more threatening feel than the other times I had been there. Probably because last time, I had been distracted for a good 30 minutes by a man with a posh cough sat perched on his briefcase while hunched over a laptop. Completely unaware of my presence, I stood red-cheeked and teary-eyed trying to contain my laughter as his conservative grunts got louder and more audacious.

I digress.

Stepping up over the bridge, the 70mph wind stole my breath and silenced what would have been a colourful array of swearing as my hair, scarf and all my belongings were swept up into a tangle of rain and wet leaves.

The platform was deserted.

Looking down, the train tracks ran off into the horizon and disappeared into the darkness. The hollow offices sat dormant, locked, and a nearby station house stood abandoned, worn with time and scarred with broken windows.

I hurried down the road in search of life and warmth at the B&B.

Once in my room, I popped down my case and admired the creepy yet lovingly familiar artwork while unwrapping a bundle of squashed jam sandwiches. Finishing my tea, I noticed the noise of the TV was being drowned out by my exam nerves, so I decided to take a shower.

The rooms were icy cold so the powerful streams of hot water came as a welcome blast, dousing my adrenaline and prickling my skin. As I stepped out, I gathered my bottles and stuffed them into my washbag. As I pulled back my hand, I saw my fingers were dripping with blood. My razor was in the bag. I'd completely forgotten.

With the burning heat of the shower still pumping through my veins, my blood surged out at an alarming rate. Before I knew it, I had covered the bath, floor, towels and basin in a thick, glossy red.

It went from bad to worse, every step I took to muffle my wounds, I just ended up covering more surfaces. I had no choice but to ask for help.

My hand wrapped up in one of the guest towels (not my proudest moment) I pulled on what clothes I could, padded out into the hallway, and rather forlornly called out to the hall of closed doors.

One of them finally opened and the owner of the B&B popped her head out.

Sat on my bed she brought a topple of plasters, scissors and tape through to my room. She smiled.

"I am a mummy you know."

With a mix of nerves, loneliness and the finer details of media law circling my brain, I was very grateful to be subjected to a small gesture of compassion on that night of the storm.