Cramped Solitude

For the first time for many years I have used a train to make a social weekend trip to the West Country. In this case it was the 'further' West, the area that normally would have involved both the M4 and the M5. I exchanged the driving seat, with its relative space but limited freedom of immediate physical action, with the (now) strangely high-backed armchair of what is once again called the Great Western Railway. It is strange to see how the prices of transport have artificially skewed the demographic: the majority of travellers are under 30; nearly all are alone (on any journey of 100 miles +,  a group of three or more would almost certainly save money by using a car rather than the train, even to include maybe hiring a car.)  The recent booms in rail travel - perhaps related to the growth of the student population - have fed through to rolling stock design. Most of the young singletons are coralled into  rows of airline style seats. There is little visibility to the front, back or sideways, as the 'four across' table configuration is all but obsolete. So few tables are there, that when two passengers request a table seat facing forward, they can, rather ludicrously, be placed side by side in an otherwise near-empty carriage.
There is, though, an unarguable advantage to travelling by rail, the one that prevails despite the inflated ticket prices and strange interior layout.  This is the difference: you retain the use of your eyes, hands and to a large degree your mind, so you can read, write and think whilst someone else takes charge of the menial but important business of checking the way ahead is clear.

No Name Lane (great title, great book)

A sprawling time-slipping serial killer mystery where, in a remote Durham village, young girls are being abducted and killed by a fanatical Christian, and moonstruck lovers of the 1930s have turned into bitter old ladies of the 1990s. Very enjoyable, though my only criticism is that the killer's 'religious' motivation has been offered by other writers, eg in James Oswald's Prayer for the Dead, which I also read recently (and on the whole enjoyed less.)
This book is clever and enjoyable. Both its timescales are in fact historical. The present day is actually 1993, which allows the author to indulge his enjoyment of sexist male group scenes, and also enables the power of the tabloid press to be a major plot motivator. Compared to Linskey's David Blake trilogy, which I admired enormously, this is much more ambitious, with two main characters, each with their own world of supporting characters around them. These are the ambitious, driven journalist, Tom, and the diffident, guilt-wracked detective Ian. By the end of the book their character arcs have developed so that, with extra knowledge, the readers' sympathies are reversed. <br>There are numerous points of view, sometimes changing within the same scene, but the author's very straightforward, people-centred style ensures things always stay clear, and the momentum keeps moving along. It was slightly disappointing, for a Penguin book, that the editors had not paid  more attention to detail in the punctuation. At several points quote marks are missing. But that doesn't matter. On the whole this is exciting, suspenseful and great fun - you'll read it quickly.