Important Announcements

Ah, trains.  Specifically, SouthWest trains.  How I love them, and all their myriad charming little ways. 

The train I catch from Waterloo to home is a great big long one, which splits in half at Salisbury.  I'm not entirely sure what happens to the other half most days. 

Maybe it gets dragged into the sidings and ceremonially vacuumed* by the High Priestesses of Rail Travel. 

Maybe it gets broken down and turned into spare parts to keep the other trains running for a few more days.

Maybe the mechanics and train wranglers spend the night making sure that none of the heating works in carriage two, or that the internal doors keep opening and closing every 30 seconds for no reason for the entire journey.

Maybe the back end driver just says "Ah, fuck it" and gets out, abandoning his half of the train at the platform for the remainder of the night, till the day shift get in and park it up out of the way.

I really don't know. 

One of the reasons I don't know is because SouthWest trains don't share any of the back story with the passengers.  Take this evening, for example.

I met my lovely mate Spencer after work for a long-delayed catch-up chat, so was on a later train home than usual.  All was well, I had a good seat** and it wasn't too crowded.  Even though my posh headphones have stopped working properly, and music only comes out of the right earpiece at the proper volume, the left one mysteriously reduced to a  tinny whisper, I plugged myself in and enjoyed some music.

The train gradually emptied, so I was able to squirm round and make myself more comfortable.  Then the guard's voice came onto the tannoy system. 

"Hello there," he said, chummily.  "This is your guard speaking with an important announcement.  Please listen."  I took my one functioning earpiece out of my ear and perked up, wondering if they were going to tell us that a member of the Royal Family was getting on at the next stop and could we all please brush our hair and polish our shoes. 

No.

"This train will be arriving in Salisbury shortly, where it will divide.  The rear coaches will continue on to Bristol, the front coaches will terminate."

What?  Hello?  That's not what usually happens.  Usually the rear coaches terminate, or sometimes go off jauntering around the West Country, but the front coaches continue their creaky progress to Exeter or Yeovil. 

"All passengers who wish to continue their journey beyond Salisbury, please get off the train here and make your way to Platform 4," the guard continued.  I could tell he was grinning as he said that.

There then followed complex instructions how to get to Platform 4.  It involved several ramps, an underpass and some strategic shoving.  The train we had to get on was already full, the passengers watching our arrival in smug comfort as we re-enacted Napoleon's retreat from Moscow, huddled in our coats against the bitter cold, laden with baggage and packages.  The bastards. 

Two minutes from my station, a dishevelled-looking bloke approached me.  He stared intently at me, saying "Excuse me...I want you to do me a favour."  I looked at him doubtfully, the moment uncomfortably prolonged by the man with the refreshment trolley passing between us. 

The dishevelled bloke then launched into a long, confusing story about how he had just arrived in the UK that morning (he looked as though he'd been travelling for some time), was due to meet his parents at Crewkerne station, but he didn't have a UK mobile phone, and would I lend him mine, he'd pay for the call, it would literally only take one minute.  He had a handful of change, jingling it as he spoke. 

Rather than pushing him away with a long pointy stick, as was my first impulse, I said no, I was getting off the train at the next stop, and we were due to pull into the platform in less than a minute.  He looked disappointed and said "It'll take less than a minute, are you sure you won't lend me your phone?"

Yes, I was quite sure. 

As I left the train, I heard him asking the old chap sat in front of me the same thing.  I can only assume he kept asking till somebody gave in and let him make his call.  Or let him leg it with their phone.

Other news:  Spencer and I saw some interesting sights in London this evening.  One of them was a heavily-pierced man wearing a multi-coloured hat, carrying a giant backpack with several pairs of shoes hanging off it, and long khaki shorts, much like Lofty in "It Ain't Half Hot, Mum".

The other was this gentleman:

He's not shy about declaring his faith, bless him.  His jacket AND his backpack. 

Also:  Went to Fat Club on Wednesday and have lost another 3.5lbs, therefore have lost half a stone in the last 3 weeks.  As a reward I have made an appointment to get my hair cut at the posh saloon in Salisbury.  Yeee-haw.





*Unlikely, given the filth in every crevice and cranny
**As good as they get in filthy cramped standard class, at least

Too much monkey business

Mr WithaY has been stung, yes stung, by the debate over the use if marker pen and cocktail sticks, and also by the suggestion that he has a fish fetish.

I hope this silences the doubters:





It has a maraschino cherry tongue! It's a great big green louche cocktail gorilla.

For those of you who fret about such things, we ate the marrow body and the courgette arms afterwards, but not the face. That was too disturbing.

Other news: Some pictures from the lovely, lovely party last weekend. As most of them are of the family, it seems rather inappropriate to put them on here, but I do like this one of Mr WithaY flaked out under the mighty erection, following his return from the woods on Sunday morning. What you can't see is the many small children and perky Jack Russell who were gleefully playing around (and sometimes over) him as he dozed peacefully in the shade.

The mighty erection in the garden:



It was a truly beautiful day, and the purple buddleia bush in the corner was alive with butterflies. There were Red Admirals, Commas, Peacocks, Fritilleries, white ones and yellow ones. Plus some brown ones I think may have been moths.

Buddleia butterflies:







This afternoon we're off to spend the weekend with some mates, which will be lovely. It's nice to feel that things are starting to get back to normal after the SSFH* of recent months.

Other, other news: Thing I have seen on my travels this week:

A huge articulated lorry turning a corner into Victoria street slightly too quickly, causing the large, expensive-looking motorbike strapped to the back to slide violently, detaching the straps on one side, then smash into the middle of the road. It hung there by one set of straps as the lorry driver leapt out of his cab swearing and panicking, his little dog watching quizzically from the open truck door as all the traffic in South London began to grind to a halt.

The guard on the train last night walking down the aisle, stopping as he got to where I sat, looking thoughtful, shaking his leg as if he had pins and needles, then picking up his keys from the floor and saying "Aha! I thought I had a hole in that pocket."

More roe deer than you can shake a stick at, leaping all over the fields in the mornings, making everyone on the train go "Ooooo!" at them.







*Shit storm from Hades

Flower power

In my last post I meant to talk about my big night out, but got sidetracked by the whole phone idiocy thing.

So.

What with the lighter evenings, my newfound confidence in finding my way when walking around London, and a bit less stress and anxiety in general, a mid-week social life seemed to be a good idea.

Monday nights are now officially "stay in Chelsea" nights, with my lovely mate, but things aren't ending there. No, indeed.

I had a call from a former colleague who was in London for a couple of days, suggesting we meet for a chat and a catch-up after work. So we did. And it was lovely. We met, went to a pub, had a drink, caught up on all the stuff that is going on in our work lives respectively, then I dashed off to catch my train and he headed off to a late meeting. How civilised.

When we were arranging where to meet he said "I'll wear a red carnation." Sure enough, when I arrived, he had a flower in his lapel, albeit a rose, not a carnation. Anyway, he gave it to me, once the joke was over.

I walked back to Waterloo Station admiring the lovely riverside views, and smelling my flower, which has kept the scent right up till now. I think it's the same variety as one we have in the garden, which lasts for ages and smells wonderful.

The old chap sat next to me on the train noticed it, so I let him have a sniff*.

When he showed his ticket to the conductor there was a lot of banter. He had used an automatic ticket machine, and pressed the Young Person button instead of the Senior button. The conductor asked him for evidence that he was under 25. It was all very good-natured, and made people smile.

But oh lordy, that conductor liked the sound of his own voice. He made announcements over the intercom system roughly every five minutes, detailing what the next station stop was, where you could go from there, what the chief local attractions were, who he knew that used to live there. It went on for bloody ever.

The train divides at Salisbury. The front half half continues trundling on to Exeter, the rest of the train gets detached and stays in Salisbury. It's not complicated.

We had every single possible permutation of that information that you can imagine over the 90 minutes between Waterloo and Salisbury. At least ten times.

Other news: Mr WithaY and one of our neighbours were moving a shed** around this afternoon, which was awkward, so they apparently ended up "turning it into a sedan chair." Now they think they have the basis for a sound business venture - sedan chairs to take you home from the pub.

I'll let you know if they make a million on the back of that.




*That's not something you get to say every day.

**"It's liftable by two people, but not by one" was how it was described over the phone. I am guessing that appies to most sheds, surely? If one person can lift it, it's a playhouse. A small one.

Fidgets

I am snuffling annoyingly, but as I am at home today it doesn't seem so bad somehow. And it's not raining, which is nice.

You do see some types on the train, though, don't you? There was a woman sat next to me on Monday night who should win some sort of award for "Most Tiresome Traveller".

She was middle aged, determinedly blonde in a "Hey, I still have great looks, everyone" kind of way, and dressed like I used to when I was about 15. She had strategically placed her bags and coats all over two seats, trying to stop anyone from sitting next to her, and had her head down, ignoring all the passengers as they got onto the train.

Ahah. I don't fall for that ploy any more. Taking a leaf out of a chap's book who I had watched with admiration that very morning, I said "Shall I put those up on the rack for you?" as I started taking off my coat, and making it obvious I was going to sit there. She looked at me in frank dismay and started gathering up all her stuff, obviously not pleased that I was going to be joining her.

But, if she wants two seats, she can pay for two seats, is what I say. Well, thought. But she could read it in my body language I think.

Anyhoo. She cleared all her stuff away and I sat down, intending to read my book. FidgetWoman was writing letters, or postcards or something, and gradually twisted herself round in the seat till she was sticking her fat arse into me, in a manner I would have thought over familiar in my best friend.

I responded by fidgeting right back at her, putting in my iPod and shuffling around till she realised she was encroaching. She muttered an apology as she sat up straight again. I was tempted to pull the middle armrest down in a challenging and decisive manner, but that seemed a bit too overtly rude. She went back to her writing (she had really stupid handwriting, all big loops and twiddly bits, probably signed her name with a heart over it, not that I was looking), spreading her pens, notebooks, cards and assorted crap all over the table, much to the annoyance of the girl opposite who was trying to read some big serious looking work papers.

After what felt like about 17 hours of this, she excused herself and headed off to the toilet*, meaning I had to wake up from my half-doze and stagger to my feet so she could get past me.

When she came back, I went to stand up but she said "No, no, I'll sit here..." and slid into an empty seat across the aisle. Heh. My "I hate you and everything you stand for" body language is coming on a treat.

After a bit she decided she needed all her bags and crap, so leaned right over the table to pick them up. I offered to move again, but she said "No, it's fine, it's fine," in a flustered manner. The girl opposite and I shared A Look.

Eventually, FidgetWoman had gathered up all her stuff, and as she dragged it across the table, something wet and sticky in one of the bags sprayed all over all three of us. I looked at her in stunned amazement, clearly giving her the "How can anyone be that fucking stupid?" face I do so well.

The girl opposite silently wiped her papers with one hand, then fetched a clean tissue from her bag and wiped her face, before continuing with her reading. Every now and again we shared another Look.

I examined my bag (splattered), my suit (unmarked, or she'd have been stuffed out of the window into the middle of Wiltshire head first) and my beautiful scarf (covered in fuck knows what). Rather than emitting a loud cry of rage and strangling her with it, as I wanted to do, I merely *tch*ed, folded it up and put it in my bag.

It's great being British.

I did amuse myself by watching FidgetWoman's attempts to pretend she was relaxed and happy for the rest of the journey, though. Heh.

Other odd things I saw on the train this week:

1) A large amount of what looked like hemp rope, neatly coiled up in the middle of the track.

2) A small dead greenfinch in the corridor between two carriages. The guard walked down, spotted it, said "Aha! A freeloader!", picked it up by one claw (the bird's not his, he had normal hands as far as I could tell) and flung it into a secret guard alcove in the corridor. Perhaps to add to the stewpot for supper that night, who knows?

3) A middle aged chap in a mostly respectable work outfit, carrying a battered skateboard to use for the rest of his commute.




*Well, I assumed that's where she went. She might have been looking for a contract killer in need of a quick job.

Blast from the past

When I was going into London on Wednesday morning, the train was delayed as we approached Waterloo. We sat still, and then inched forwards, then sat still a bit more.

And so the long day wore on.

After about 10 minutes of this, the charming Polish (I think) guard's voice came over the intercom. She apologised for the delay, and then said "It is because of.....(pause)....a train from the past."

A train from the past eh?

No wonder we were delayed. I was most disappointed when I got out at Waterloo not to see Stephenson's "Rocket" parked up on the next platform, with the bloke with the red flag looking sheepish, apologising to all the grumpy delayed commmuters.

Other news: It snowed! It was minus 4 degrees at 0700 when I was scraping the ice off my car, and by the time the train got to Basingstoke there was significant snow on the ground. And it's not even Halloween yet. Tch.

New job is going ok, I am starting to get to grips with some of the stuff around the edges, which is encouraging. Might even feel semi-competent by Christmas at this rate.

But lawyers. Brrrrrrrrrrr.

Tale of Woe

Today I am mostly in Bristol, sitting at someone else's desk, trying to get on with stuff while everyone around me wonders who I am.

Just like my own office, really.

I came in on the train, which was uneventful and pleasant. I hope that's a foretaste of my soon-to-be commute to London.

Mr WithaY is still seething after his trip to London last Friday. He went up to the Mexican Embassy (sadly not made of adobe, and no burros tethered outside) to sort out his visa for the forthcoming Shark Tagging Trip.

He ordered his train tickets on line, in advance, at a cost of (I think) about £9 each way, with reserved seats. Bargain. Because Tisbury station lacks an automated ticket machine, he had to go to Warminster to pick up his actual tickets. But no....both ticket machines at Warminster were out of order. He asked the nice man in the ticket office if he could get his tickets from there instead.

No.

The man in the ticket office, it transpires, can only hand over tickets in exchange for actual money. The bit of paper with evidence of the purchase transaction is not enough. And, just carrying that bit of paper on the train instead of a ticket will get you into enormous trouble, apparently. Fines, police, dragged off to jail, you name it.

Mr WithaY, being a man who lives life on the edge, decided to take that risk.

He travelled successfuly to Waterloo. The guard on the train stamped his bit of paper and said "When you get to London, pick up a ticket for the return trip. Just to be on the safe side."

The Mexican Embassy staff were helpful and courteous, but I was dismayed to learn that the Ambassador failed to bring out the Ferrero Rocher chocolates. Mr WithaY made his way back to Waterloo with a song in his heart and a receipt for his ticket in his pocket, with a good hour to spare before his train was due. Plenty of time to pick up a ticket from the ticket office.

A ticket he had already paid for, mark you.

20 minutes in the queue for the ticket office did not bode well. The ticket office people eventually told him "No, we can't give you a ticket, you have to go to the Travel Office, next door."

He went to the Travel Office next door and explained the situation to them. They sucked their teeth and made sad faces, and told him he had to go to the Information Desk, just over there.

He went to the Information Desk, just over there. The Information Desk people looked at each other in dismay told him to go to the Ticket Office.

Mr WithaY asked to speak to a manager.

The manager came out, listened to the story and said "Oh, you need to go to the Travel Office, come with me." As they walked back into the Travel Office, the staff exclaimed "We've already told him we can't give him a ticket!"

Mr WithaY, possibly channelling Mexicans, was pretty laid back, even though he now only had 20 minutes till his train was due, and still had no ticket.

Finally, the combined brains of the Waterloo station team suggested he go across London to Euston and pick up his ticket, yes, the one he's already paid for, from the automatic machine there.

It takes 20 minutes to get to Euston from Waterloo. And then 20 minutes to get back. So, at least 40 minutes, to get a ticket for a train that is due in 15. Not a great plan.

Mr WithaY said he was not going to take their advice, and would travel back with his bit of paper, which, if you recall, had already been stamped once by the train ticket collector on the way up there.

The Waterloo team flapped, telling him he would be in biiiig trouble, police, fines, prison, flogging, transported to Australia, etc etc etc.

Mr WithaY decided to ignore them and go and wait for his train.

However, being a law-abiding citizen, his conscience smote him and eventually went and bought a single ticket back, at a cost of £31. In addition to the £9 advance ticket he had already paid for, with a reserved seat and all.

He found his seat, and took up position, a ticket in one hand and his reserved receipt in the other. By now his Mexican laid-back-ness had worn away and he was just waiting to be challenged. I beleive he adopted a "Come on then, you fuckers" stance.

The ticket collector came, and Mr WithaY presented his receipt. "Will you accept this as my ticket?" he asked. The ticket collector looked at it, nodded and said "Yes, no problem sir." Mr WithaY then presented the additional £31 ticket and explained the situation.

The rest of the carriageful listened attentively, some of them joining in with cries of "Ooh, that's not right at all!" and "How outrageous!"

The ticket collector's advice: Send the extra ticket to South West Trains with a letter of explanation and demand a refund.

I'll let you know if we get one.

Glory

Just got home from a rather trying day in Bristol. Had to meet my contact "in the coffee bar" at around "mid-morning".

Due to the hurried nature of our plans last night and my own crap sense of location, I ended up in the wrong coffee bar in the wrong building for 25 minutes, fretting that I would miss the meeting we had lined up with a Tremendously Senior Person.

Eventually, however, we hooked up successfully. Then I mungoed about killing time till we had the pre-meeting meeting (pushed back from 1130 to 1pm which was stressful as I had longer to panic), at which it became apparent that the Tremendously Senior Person we were briefing was labouring under a major and critical misapprehension about my project.

Once we'd resolved that, it was time to hurry up and wait some more till 3pm, when I got to sit in on the Hugely Important Meeting (quietly and meekly at the back, and only for 15 minutes, mind) while the great and the good decided whether or not to let my project go ahead.

They did.

So hurrah. I (and my team) all still have jobs.

God I hate train travel though. It's just that little bit less stressful than driving over there, but it involves so much hanging about. And you're either freezing cold (like when you're waiting on a rainy windswept platform for 25 minutes) or boiling hot (when you're in an immensely crowded train and don't have the space to take off your coat).

Gah.

On the way there, a nice Welsh lady was sat opposite me. When the ticket collector came to her, she asked for a single to Newport.

"Only a single?" the ticket man said. "How are you getting back?"

"Oh I have a lift home" she said, smiling.

The ticket man thought about this for a moment.

"Tell you what, love," he said. "Get a return. It's only 10p more expensive... your lift might not turn up, and then you'd be stuck."

So she did.

What a salesman. I might nominate him for an award.

Low class

I went up to London for my meeting (successful, ta), and met my lovely mate Biggles for lunch afterwards, which was an unexpected bonus.

We chatted, ate splendid fish and chips in a pub (jealous, American readers?) and then he very sweetly walked me back to Waterloo to get my train.

Had a fantastic view of the London Eye as we crossed the bridge, which sparked a discussion about other freakishly altered fairground rides you could put in a big city. Our favourite was the enormous, really slow Helter Skelter that takes an hour to slide down, then slo-o-owly bounces you across the river on a giant coconut mat.

Anyhoo. Got to the train, and asked the nice guard (who looked a lot like Lord Bath, oddly) if I could use the door he was stood by.

"Yes love, but it's First Class."

"I am First Class" I said, trying for a haughty and devil-may-care tone, but sadly coming across rather whiny and crap, waving my ticket at him.

"Well, in that case I'll let you in" he said.

When he checked my ticket later he made a jokey comment about how he could "just tell" I was First Class. And so the long afternoon wore on.

I plugged mysef into the iPod, and listened to 1980s heavy rock all the way to Salisbury, where you have to change trains. As I stepped off the train, the friendly guard was there again.

"Ooh" he said "Not sure First Class people paint their toenails bright red!"

"Only the sleazy ones" I replied, trying to decide whether I was pleased he'd noticed or affronted that he'd been looking. Tch. Girls, eh?


Not First Class toes, allegedly.