Monday, Aug. 27, 2007 - 4:49 pm
Conscious of a long absence I was going to come in here with the standard What I Did on My Holidays essay, as beloved of all teachers in the first week of term. However it occurred to me that what I had mostly spent my holidays doing � and certainly the last few days of it � was sitting on trains.
Now, I happen to like sitting on trains. As with all travelling - so long as one is travelling - I quite like to find myself in a situation where the only thing I can do is sit down, drink tea and read books. Given a bit of leg room, no screaming children and no drunken boors it�s a perfectly pleasant way to spend a few hours. Plug the music into the head, crack the spine of both book and traveller, kick back.
But of course I live in this country, haunted as it is by both the vengeful spirit of British Rail and Sod in equal parts. I took a perfectly pleasant trip up to Vertical a few weeks ago, and within 24hrs of returning I biffed up to Leeds for a wedding. Both trips exiting the Metropolis were things of beauty and restfulness, nothing to do but watch the countryside go by and drink aforementioned tea �
( - and on a side-note, all those people saying England is one great over-built sprawl heaving with dark and satanic housing estates have obviously never travelled around the country by train. I�ve seen nothing but fields for the last month).
Anyway. Trips out of London, charming. Trips returning to London, a whole �nother bag of fish. I have still seen a fair amount of green and pleasant English meadow-hood in this time; indeed, I�ve seen a great deal more of it than I ever planned on. On Thursday I spent an hour (perfectly pleasant in itself) sat at Kemble station observing the platform and wondering when the next cup of tea could be got. The trouble with sitting at Kemble station is that there�s nothing else to do. Even with the VO announcing a delay �minimum 30 minutes� there is no alternative but to sit, observe the world and allow an inward hollow laugh at those strangers to the area who disembarked hoping to find a taxi to greater civilisation. There is no great civilisation anywhere near Kemble, and I wouldn�t swear blind there is even a taxi. Signal failure notwithstanding we steamed into London only an hour late. I picked up the compensation form and allowed myself a moment�s ire in the direction of all train companies for daring to delay me by an hour. Oh, how they must have laughed�
Trip up to Leeds the following day, thing of aforementioned beauty. Wedding itself, thing of sublime all-that-is-hoped-for-ness. Even the hangover the following day was only but what could be expected of a hangover caused by excess toasting champagne followed by men buying me single malts all night. And at the appointed hour a kindly acquaintance bundled me into a car, drove me to the station and I staggered aboard the train as noted on my ticket with ten minutes to spare.
And sat there. And sat there a bit longer. And reasoned that at least I wasn�t having to get back to anything in a hurry. And sat there some more. And wondered if I had a hope in hell of getting some food any time soon. And sat there. There were random messages over the tannoy, but as they were all along the lines of �it�s buggered, we�re sorry� there wasn�t a lot of point in paying attention. And anyway, after 55 minutes of this they came back to say no, it really is buggered, we�re turfing you off. So we turfed, and then all we like sheep milled around on the platform for a bit before being told to remove ourselves three platforms over. Luckily by this time I had acquired for myself the essential piece of equipment that all folk being stranded in strange places should hasten to acquire:- the Crisis Friend.
This is really what it�s all about. Whenever one finds oneself thus stranded, what one really needs is someone with whom to spread the pain. And I apologise if this pains any Feminist minds reading, but it really does help if it�s a large man. When a whole train-full of people have just been told to leave platform A, run up the stairs, cross the bridge, run down to platform D and board a train already full of people then a large man running afore thee is most useful; he creates a vacuum in his wake into which I can invariably fit, and once on board he�s much more likely to spot empty seats over peoples� heads (I can barely see over my own head, f�crissakes). And, despite looking precisely like Laurence Llewellyn-Bowen�s younger brother and being in speech more camp than a field full of Girl Guides, the chap I found myself served beautifully. He ticked all the tall/entertaining/chivalrous boxes necessary, and was also very useful in being able to throw my case up onto the overhead shelf when the designated luggage racks were full, which they invariably were. And anyway, the train we were decanted onto was itself delayed for a quarter hour and only went as far as York. We then � after a further two platform run-arounds - had to decant onto train the third to get to London, and that train was delayed ten minutes in departing and over half an hour in getting into London.
Should have arrived at London: 18:28.
Actually arrived in London: 21:14.
Luckily by this time Robert and I were bosom buddies of the first order, and as he�d kept me well topped-up with tea and Mars Bars (and himself with red wine) for the duration he had considerably lessened the chances of Sunday�s papers leading with �Massacre at Kings Cross�.
The thing about these people of course is that you never see them again. He is now �that lovely bloke I met on the train at Leeds who kept me company for the next five hours�. I am eternally grateful for his company and generosity. And I hope he didn�t do himself an actual injury, what with his determination to proceed with his plan of going out drinking all night and then sailing on the Thames at 6am the next morning. I have relied upon Crisis Friends any number of times in the past, and I would hate to hear of any of these fine people coming a cropper in the future.
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