Call me Twemlow. A while back, I decided to take the first bus to come along, and just go wherever it took me. At the time, I felt that if I didn’t do something, I might start knocking people’s hats off in the street. That’s the mood I was in. Anti-social, I know, but I was down in the dumps and my feet were cold. The bus was my substitute for the pistol and ball. So I jumped on the 46A to Beaconsfield (via Town Centre) and never looked back. The man you see before you today was born on that bus.
In an earlier era, I might have gone to sea in the Pequod, à la Melville, or travelled around the world in a hot-air balloon, à la Verne, but Catweazle can only rise to the Beaconsfield bus (via Town Centre). Not for me to say, of course, but has there been a sharp decline in literary standards of late? Discuss, and illustrate your answer with examples of your own, if you wish.