You've got to love a train journey -
it's so relaxing - not ...
Sometimes I hate travelling. Most of the time I find it exciting and look forward to being on the move, but when I’m trapped in a situation that’s impossible to beam myself out of, it’s hard not to think about the hours that remain between where I am and where I actually want to end up. I’ve had two such journeys recently, but I’ll only bore you with the first one, and then you can tell me your eventful travel stories, so that we can all moan together.
I went to visit my daughter in Essex by train a few weekends ago and came back on the Sunday afternoon via Liverpool St and Bank, resenting the long corridors to the Victoria line which would take me to Euston for the two- and a-bit hour train journey back to Liverpool. The platform hadn’t been called when I got there, but as soon as it was announced, there was the usual stampede, and I was glad I’d booked a seat. I ensconced myself by the window and read my book, (the first Inspector Gamache since you ask). The train filled up with disgruntled standing passengers with no place for their luggage, and I grumbled silently to myself that I’d never get through that lot to the bar.
I wasn’t even aware that the train hadn’t left when the manager announced there would be a delay because the signals were down at Watford. Everyone was suddenly texting the world with a grievance, tutting and muttering. I gave a mental shrug and continued to read, until a few minutes later, another announcement to say the engineers were on their way to Watford. This will be a long job I thought and joined the texters complaining to my nearest and dearest, wondering if that meant dinner would be delayed.
It wasn’t many minutes later when the distraught train manager cleared his throat, apologised and confessed that the train was now cancelled. I swear the carriage physically sagged with the combined weight of 80 passenger’s groans. He told us that no trains could leave Euston until the problem was fixed and the power supply restored, and why didn’t we nip over to Kings Cross and catch the Leeds train. From there, we could get a Liverpool train. The concourse at Euston was rammed by this time, so there was no point in staying there. At least I’d be on the move even if it was to the wrong side of the country. I couldn’t think of a better solution, so I joined the throng making its way to the tube.
When I got to King’s Cross I checked on the ticket. Did I need a new one? No, just use that one, a smiley lady told me, although the grumpy old porters at Leeds weren’t that accommodating and I had to argue my case when I went through the barrier. The same smiley lady told me that I couldn’t book a seat at weekends, but that carriages B & C were relatively empty. I could go at once to the platform and board. I chose a table seat. No reservations showing so that was fine. Others started to board but were wary of sitting in the seats in case they had been reserved. I confidently repeated the ticket office lady’s words and seats were taken, safe in the bubble of misinformation being promulgated by me.
Gradually little knots of contention began throughout the carriage as surprise, surprise, there are reservations at weekends and the genuine ticket holders arrived. Never trust a smiley ticket office lady, they’re getting revenge and probably watching the ensuing chaos on CCTV. The guy sitting opposite me refused to move even when the incoming passenger showed him her ticket with the seat number clearly marked, proving that she was the rightful occupier of the seat. Triumphantly he pulled out his ticket and said smugly that he had reserved B40. She checked his ticket and said in a withering tone, ‘That ticket reserves your seat from Euston to Liverpool, you are on the Leeds train,’ His veneer of civility disappeared immediately, and he sulked. I was amazed to see how quickly his smug grin was wiped off and he whined, ‘But where am I going to sit?’
By this time the train was packed and already there was standing room only. The woman merely raised her eyebrows and shrugged. The middle-aged baby boy moved petulantly out of the seat and stood in the aisle with much huffing and puffing. A teenage girl had the seat next to the woman and the man leant against her seat, feeling totally entitled to crowd her. When his antagonist left the train at Peterborough, he leapt into the seat, despite the fact that there were elderly people standing beside him. Didn’t even offer. Disappointingly he was an Observer reader although his tendencies were more Mail on Sunday. He spread himself and his paper over into the teenager’s space, while she scrunched herself up small and texted her friend who was sitting next to me. They giggled their way to Wakefield with texts that I’m sure were all about him. He was oblivious. If you’re wondering why I wasn’t standing, pure coincidence, my seat was the only one in the carriage unreserved. Oops!
When we arrived at Leeds it was almost an hour before the next train left for Liverpool and I was hungry. After trailing round the ‘on the brink of closing’ stalls, I found a panini that didn’t look too tired and juggled that with a cup of tea and a can of gin and tonic. (I know how to live). By this time the platform was crowded with displaced persons from Euston so I positioned myself where I knew the doors would open and got a seat. Most people did until we got to Manchester and then the most despondent crowd of men and boys boarded and stood, subdued all the way – Liverpool on the losing side I gathered.
Alighting at Liverpool Lime St, we were met by hoards of green-clad young people and I realised it was St Patrick’s day. No evidence of it anywhere else on my travels, but Liverpool, never a city to miss a party, was celebrating with aplomb. Driving out of the city was the most dangerous I’ve seen since the last St Patrick’s day, jay-walking the norm, dodging leprechauns a frequent hazard, together with young men running on the road against the traffic; all bets are off on this night of the year. After an eight hour trip, I was just glad to get to my bed. And to think I didn’t want to drive because, at five hours, it takes too long.
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Because I’ve been travelling for a couple of weeks, I haven’t finished reading anything much, I’m still wading through Inspector Gamache book 1. I’m a bit bored by it TBH but i’ll plod on, it’s got no grit. A bit of a milksop of a book, maybe it gets better later …
For the same reason I haven’t seen any TV, and now we’re in France, all the UK programmes are an hour later, so I have to be convinced it’s worth staying up for. here’s one that was - Blue Lights on BBC2 last night, series 2 got off to a belting start, lots of action, new cast members, looked promising.
I’ve listened to lots of radio, because it’s easier when you’re cleaning, packing, unpacking, shopping and gardening ready for the season’s visitors. I love Alphie Moore’s comedy show ‘It’s a Fair Cop’ where he recruits the audiences as cops for the night to make decisions that he might have had to make as a policemen. It’s a good job some of them aren’t! Cops that is …
Enjoying the podcast History’s Secret Heroes with Helena Bonham Carter - so many unsung heroes and spies were women in WW2.
There have been some radio plays from the 60s found recently. My favourite so far has been ‘The Dumb Waiter’ by Harold Pinter, with Bob Hoskins and Rory Kinnear. It was brilliant. All these still on BBC Sounds
Thanks for reading or listening, hope you’ll be back next month for more.
Thanks for my morning chuckle Sue!
Thank you for brightening my breakfast! You were great company. And thanks for the reminder that my day could be worse. I could be trying to get somewhere by train...