Been time travelling.
My parents, in their nineties, are preparing to move from the family homestead of more than fifty years, to an apartment. My mother is boasting that she has not thrown out even a bus ticket since 1950. So I joined my brother and sister in getting some momentum into the process of emptying the house. My childhood and teenage years were in that house in that city. But that is a lifetime ago. Going back there raises so many memories that it is like going back in time. An effect reinforced by all the junk, stuff, books and memento's being brought to the surface. (My mother presented me with a fairly comprehensive collection of my artwork from primary school. A salutary confrontation.)
And the journey was seamlessly handled by the interconnecting components of the travel machine. Rather like the round green door of Bilbo's house, from which the road leads down and onward to a myriad places, the travel machine begins at the bus stop two minutes walk from my house. The bus stopped to pick me up on time at 13:54 on Friday and delivered me in eight minutes to the intercity station. As I ascended to the platform the intercity to the airport rolled in. Just time to grab a cappuccino from the Kiosk before the train departed - the marketing machine nibbled at me "normal cappuccino, sir, or would you like the winter cappuccino with a hint of cinnamon?".
There were only a few students in the afternoon train. Having been visiting university open days with Sophie in recent weeks, my mind has been wandering over the choices I made at that age. Another aspect of the time travel effect. I passed the time on the train with the opening chapters of "The Time Traveller's Wife".