At 9.15 a.m. the café was full of clog dancing ladies dressed in puritan garb- long pastel-coloured linen dresses, long white aprons and white linen bonnets, drinking cappuccinos before their event.
At the station, a young squirrel was trying to pluck up courage to cross from one platform to the other across the rails.
Up to the edge, paws down over the edge.... nope.
A bit further up the platform, it tried again:
Up to the edge, paws down over the edge... nope.
It tried a few times and finally made it down.
Arriving at the rails, it ran up and down before it regained its sense of direction, and tried to cross.
The poor little thing had touched the live rail and it shot into the air by at least half a metre, flipping and landing back in between the rails again.
It nursed its sore paw for a couple of minutes and was obviously having a think; when its paw had recovered, it scurried back up to the platform it had left from and headed off in another direction entirely.