 Galloping Foxley Read by Richard Griffiths Five days a week for thirty-six years, I've travelled the eight to twelve train to the city. It's never unduly crowded, and it takes me right into Cannon Street Station, only an eleven and a half minute walk from the door of my office in Austin Friars. I've always liked the process of commuting. Every phase of the little journey is a pleasure to me. There's a regularity about it that's agreeable and comforting to a person of habit, and in addition it serves as a sort of slipway, along which I am gently but firmly launched into the waters of daily business routine. Ours is a smallish country station, and only ninety or twenty people gather there to catch the eight to twelve. We're a group that rarely changes, and when occasionally a new face appears on the platform, it causes a certain disclamatory protestant ripple, like a new bird in a cage of canaries. But normally, when I arrive in the morning with my usual four minutes to spare, there they all are these good, solid, steadfast people standing in their right places with their right umbrellas and hats and ties and faces, and the newspapers under their arms as unchanged and unchangeable through the years as the furniture in my own living room. I like that. I also like my corner seat by the window and reading the times to the noise and motion of the train. This part of it lasts thirty-two minutes, and it seems to soothe both my brain and my fretful old body like a good long massage. Believe me, there's nothing like routine and regularity for preserving one's peace of mind. I've now made this morning journey nearly ten thousand times in all, and I enjoy it more and more every day. Also, irrelevant but interesting, I have become a sort of clock. I can tell at once if we are running two, three, or four minutes late, and I never have to look up to know which station we are stopped at. The walk at the other end from Cannon Street to my office is neither too long nor too short. A healthy little perambulation along street crowded with fellow commuters all proceeding to their places of work on the same orderly schedule as myself. It gives me a sense of assurance to be moving among these dependable, dignified people who stick to their jobs and don't go gadding about all over the world. Their lives, like my own, are regulated nicely by the minute hand of an accurate watch, and very often our paths cross at the same times and places on the street each day. Sample complete. Ready to continue?