If Mick Thomas is right, and “there’s no point writing postcards on your bad days”, this is a pretty pointless entry. Last night’s train ride was pretty ordinary. Second class carriages slept six, two rows of bunks three high, in a space a little smaller than the average bathroom. I wasn’t expecting the hilton on rails, but in a space that size, I’d hope the airconditioning worked. It didn’t, I tried to make it work, even got the otherwise underworked conductor guy to have a go. Nope. You’d think that the steamed up windows would give someone a clue? Nope. I managed eventually to prise the window open a little,…