Swaying from side to side, like a baby being treated like a baby by someone that once watched a cartoon about how to hold a baby, I slept with one eye open. The Caledonian Sleeper sounds like something from an Agatha Christie novel - the name of a murderer who attacks during slumber.
There was no murder, apart from the pig that made my complimentary bacon roll as I stumbled out onto Euston station at 6.30am.
How strange to fall asleep in one country and wake in another. Like a visceral Christmas, only without the tangerine.