David Leaves was starving. No, it was worse than that; he was famished. The steak-slice that he always carried as his emergency snack had been wolfed down ages ago, and he was beginning to get twitchy. His wife called his food mood the Dithering Davids because he couldn’t focus properly on the job at hand when his stomach was crying out for attention. He’d been working on this stretch of track for four hours straight. The extra pair of hands he’d been promised hadn’t turned up, and the crew from the Brookwood sub-station were all playing silly beggars and pretending not to hear their phones ringing. One of them at least could have come down and helped. They were all probably watching the football or blasting each other into oblivion on Call of Anarchy 3: Damnation Delivered, or some other
