Such a troublesome morning, dear readers. Let us sit on the ground and tell sad stories of the closure of the Northampton to Market Harborough line.
At around 3am, the door crashed open. In their torchlight I beheld three people wearing Guy Fawkes masks. Clearly this was to hide their faces, but as one of them carried a lacrosse stick and kept calling the other two "Marston" and "Keith", I have my suspicions. They said they had come to obtain any secret financial documentation.
Four hours they were there, going through the reams of paperwork in my cupboards and under the bed. Until they did finally accept that I am in possession of nothing more dangerous than a complete set of timetables from 1827 to the Beeching disaster, tasting notes on every beer I have ever drunk and details on the precise arrival time of the trains on the Bedford to Bletchley line, at Ridgmont Station, since 2008. I like to think that, the latter being unique, the British Library may want it when I am gone.
At the end of all their examinations - frequently delayed as Keith looked up from the tasting notes to ask such searching questions as why you would put an otter called Maris in your beer, or the difference between Hallertau and Fuggles - they provisionally accepted I was innocent. Although Charlii said "but you can't prove you're innocent". I started to explain that proving a negative is extremely difficult - but she hit me with her lacrosse stick.
Ah me. It's just like old times.