Dear diary, I must report I have failed at my boycott.
Arrived at York today, parched from a Northern 155 that was internally the temperature of the sun. Fancying a crisp, cool can of something sparkling, the vending machine on platform 3 gleamed - it was magnificently stocked, every item full to the back and labels facing forwards. I thought I'd be the one to ruin the perfection and tried to place an order (this vending machine had a "basket" that you had to add things to before you could "check out" - it is probably grandiose enough to think of itself as a vertical supermarket). But every item was "prohibited", a nod to North Korea where everything looks plentiful to tourists who don't look too hard into the detail. I gave up, devastated.
I saw another machine in the little waiting hut down the platform, which was packed with a carpet of crying children and extremely worn looking looking parents. Suitcases presumably full of opened presents lined the walls.
This machine accepted my "order" and a tinny speaker told me to present my card, which I did. £1.20 layer (yes really) a can of fizzy nectar thumped down, and after wrestling the anti theft flap open I ripped the can open without thinking about how agitated it was from it's recent descent.
I made an arse of myself. Fanta foamed up and overflowed the can, spilling everywhere. I was already starting to walk out, and no amount of hoovering the top of the can worked. Someone who was walking past me did a polite "Oop" as she recoiled to safety from the orange eruption. I had no choice but to press on and march right out of the waiting room, kidding myself that I wasn't embarrassed.
What Fanta was left went in mere seconds and it was divine, I was too parched to care.
