Friday's trip

A short hair cut

Thanks to a late night I was reasonably well prepared for my 9am departure to catch a train across south west England. All that I needed to do was eat breakfast, pack one item off the washing line and prepare a picnic for the train. Getting up at 8am gave me plenty of time to stay on schedule. That was until Matt decided that he wanted his hair cut. In fairness, I’ve been saying for a few weeks that he should get a haircut but up until today he’d been more tolerant of it than me. Our usual hairdresser, Katherine, being unavailable, the only course of action was for me to test my hairdressing skills. I was keen to use the kitchen scissors but Matt was insistent that I used his beard trimmer (he doesn’t really have a beard). 20 minutes later Matt was considerably de-haired (more de-haired than had been the original intention, but it was at least even) and I was no longer on schedule. We were both covered in lots of small bits of ginger hair.

I didn’t think that the schedule would permit me a shower to remove the small bits of ginger hair from my person, but in actual fact I made it to the station with plenty of time to spare. I was even able to position myself on the platform in anticipation of my allocated seat. Here I observed some teenage boys indulging in the peculiar practice of spraying deodorant all over themselves. They have clearly not yet learnt about the biology of sweat but I resisted indicating to them the parts of their body that would better benefit from the application of deodorant.

Phase one of my trip to Southampton Central station passed uneventfully. My allocated seat was in the quiet carriage. It wasn't very quiet but I didn't mind. A rather haughty sounding woman did mind and made an unofficial announcement that could everyone please keep the volume down. Which was mostly met with barely disguised sniggers of laughter from the rest of the carriage.

Phase two was so uneventful that I even managed a little snooze. That was until Sherbourne, when a posh couple boarded. At least they seemed posh to me. They had a rather dilapidated shopping trolley from which they extracted their picnic packaged in bags from a high end supermarket before precariously shoving it into the overhead stowage. The woman was pleasingly eccentrically (sorry about the double adverb use) dressed:

• bum-bag - which wasn't removed or ventured into at all
• sunglasses - even though she wasn't in the sun
• sunhat - even though she wasn't in the sun
• headphones - even though she was relentlessly talking the whole time
• elastic band around her wrist

Her picnic seemed to consist of lettuce leaves freshly plucked from a lettuce, which she did not pause in her talking to masticate. I felt rather sorry for the young lady from Jersey who happened to be sat next to them who did remarkably well whilst they argued about how she could best get to Regent Street (I think they thought that she'd never ventured onto public transport before). The posh lady wasn't wrong when she described the countryside through which we were traversing as ravishing though.

My tiffin

It wouldn't affect me, but there was much consternation when it was announced that the train wouldn't be stopping at Clapham Junction - apparently it was too hot. I just had time eat my picnic, which due to the morning's time constraints consisted of the leftovers from the day before's tea (sweet potato, mushroom and spinach curry). I don't know what the posh lady would have to say about this as she was now in full swing about her tea the day before:

• fish pie in which she couldn't find any fish
• meringue which surely wasn't made with free range eggs
• and if they could afford such good wine why couldn't they have organic potatoes?

With one stop to go, the train was ominously stationery. It was hot on the train and I was uncomfortable from all the little bits of ginger hair all over me. Apparently someone had driven into a bridge (apparently this is creatively called bridging) so we would have to take a slight detour. Still, I was only 10 minutes later than scheduled and hadn't kept my dad waiting too long.

Before heading home, dad kindly agreed that we could pop into the shops. It was a successful mini-trip as I bought no more and no less than had been intended (apart from a possibly unnecessary purchase in a large toiletry store to use up a voucher).

Dad's driving was funny, he kept insisting on pointing out various highway regulations both to me and other drivers (imagine a finger pointing at the speed limit sign).

Stag beetle - spotted whilst walking

After catching up with my friend Katie, it was time I made my way down the road to the Waterside Arts Festival event: "Jazz at the Grove". I was to join my parents and all my aunts and uncles (at least all those that I know about), and was to bring my mother-in-law's Yorkshire terrier, Fred, who is temporarily residing with my mum and dad. It was a very pleasant evening for the 1.7mile walk; unfortunately Fred didn't agree and refused to walk any further after less than 0.1miles. This meant that I had to carry him the rest of the way in his special carrying bag. I suppose he can be forgiven as he is 14 years old (which possibly makes him 98 in dog years although I always thought that whole thing was a bit dubious), but I think a few car accidents were only narrowly avoided as people gawped at me while I walked along with him cradled at my bosom - I have found this to be the most comfortable and secure way to carry a small dog. 

Friday's complete failure of both engines

I had wanted Friday afternoon off work to get to London for a girl's weekend with some of my best friends, staying at Alex's new(ish) flat. Since college we all dispersed around the country and try to catch up a couple of times a year. But a colleague wanted Thurs and Fri off work and I felt mean that she wouldn't be able to have  it because I wanted a half day. So I duly booked myself on the 1844 from Plymouth, to arrive at Paddington at 2230. I arrived at the station a bit early and the nice man let me on a different train that had been delayed from Penzance. This should get me to London half an hour earlier and have the bonus of being direct rather than having to change at Taunton. It would prove to have some rather negative consequences. 

I started off in carriage B. I had to move just after Newton Abbot as I was surrounded by people sniffing. I would rather they had got  a tissue and done a big blow and got it over and done with.

So into carriage C. Here I was able to get a forward facing seat. Which meant that I could read my book without the risk of nausea. It was somewhat difficult to concentrate on my aging copy of A Farewell to Arms, due to all the various random people, who's conversations it was impossible not to listen in to.

Behind me was a mother and son. In front a girl in her late teens. Across the aisle a chap, maybe my sort of age, consuming quantities of Australian branded lager (I think that it's brewed in the UK). Behind him a younger chap with an accent I couldn't quite get, and in front of him a rather posh looking middle aged lady.

The banter began at Exeter where 2 welsh ladies joined the train. It turned out that they were mother (maybe of about 70) and daughter, travelling from Ilfracombe to Swansea. This apparently required 5 changes, which struck me as real train dedication. The daughter had a print out with all the connections but seemed rather confused about when they would actually be getting anywhere. During this leg of the journey the conversation revolved my travelling companions being worried that someone was going to walk off with their luggage. Welsh daughter would not sit down so that she could keep an eye on her's. Posh woman kept standing up and walking to hers (interestingly she was also reading Hemingway, but had a pristine looking volume and didn't actually seem to be reading very much as she kept getting up). I recounted the time that my luggage had been removed by someone at Taunton. It wasn't until we got to London and the case left on the train was clearly not mine that we realised, but the situation was resolved as my case was sent up on the last train and the other one returned to Somerset. The lager chap went to get his bag then and spent the rest of the journey with it on the seat next to him.

Taunton to nearly Reading passed fairly uneventfully. The girl in front was busy for most of that time having loud and irate conversations. She was clearly planning on a night out in Reading but her friends appeared to be inadequately organised for her liking. She finally said that she would get a lift from her dad (who would take her luggage) to someone else's house. She called her dad who (based on the expletives) evidently refused to pick her up. Apparently he had had 2 glasses of wine and she had no capacity to appreciate that this might be a problem: "he's not on the floor".

The tickets were inspected. Someone further back was trying to justify why he didn't have a ticket. The lager chap tried to get a refund. Apparently someone else had bought the ticket for him and booked him on a 6am train, rather than 6pm. So he'd bought a ticket for the current journey but was trying to get the money back for the other one. It didn't wash. We learnt that he was a carpenter / builder, that he lived in Devon but most of his family were in Oxford and that he was on the way to the capital for a "massive" party. He had 10 lagers to get through before the end of the journey and, rather wisely decided that he wouldn't be able to do this alone so offered them around. The chap behind him accepted. From this brief exchange I decided that he was Polish. The posh woman had disappeared off somewhere.

About 2115 we were coming into Reading. The guard announced that we were just waiting for a local train before pulling in to the station. 5 minutes later: "Ladies and gentlemen, I am sorry to announce that there has been a total engine failure". Much groaning ensued. We were stationary for the next 2 hours in which ensued the most farcical train delay I have ever had the misfortune to be involved in. Initially there were a number of announcements in which the guard told us that he was trying to find the driver to find out what was going on. Surely there are a limited number of places for a driver to be on a train. 

After about 15 minutes the driver had clearly been found and we were told that the front engine had now also failed, in addition to the rear engine which had been in a state of failure since St Austell. That was all. After a while they said that someone was coming to fix the engine.

Clearly the fix didn't work as the next announcement was that a spare engine was making it's way from a depot near Paddington and that it may take an hour to arrive. Cue more groaning.

A few of my neighbours went to have a smoke out of the window. Possibly of tobacco.

I struck up conversation with the 9 year old behind me. The kid was good company. He's hoping to get scouted this year. I thought he was a bit young to be moving on from the cubs but soon realised that he meant by a football club. I think I can now safely say that I have a comprehensive understanding of the football league system. And Plymouth Argyle's standing in that. He talked with me while his mother argued with someone in London about how they would get home from Paddington. Her, Josh, and Candy and Lola would be stranded. Candy and Lola? It was at this point that it dawned on me that the strange noises that I was occasionally hearing were not coming from a passenger with sleep apnoea but from these 2 dogs. Bichon Frise apparently.

I paused my conversation with Josh; it was 2230 and I was starting to get worried about my onward journey. If we were ever going to get going again.

I put an emergency call out to my Dad for train times from onwards from Paddington - I would have to cross London to get Alex's.

I put out an emergency social media appeal for accommodation near Reading.

I called Alex to update her on my whereabouts.

I called, Matt, my husband for moral support.

I trod on Candy or Lola. The ensuing noise was not pleasant. I am no longer phobic of dogs but I am wary. Cue feet to chest in a frantic manoeuvre to avoid ankle biting.

Eventually the rescue engine came. The guard was refusing to answer any questions. An old friend had messaged me to say that I could stay at her's if I could get to Wokingham. My home counties geography is appalling: cue a further call to my Dad. Current time approx 2310, last train to Wokingham from Reading 2334.

At some point I realised that the chap I thought was Polish was actually from Newcastle.

Further announcement that they were waiting for permission to attach the rescue engine. Time was passing (there's an unnecessary statement if ever there was one). Unless I could get to Paddington by 2345 I was going to struggle to get to Alex's. The guard told me that unless I had bought a through ticket to Earlsfield that was my own problem.

2330: Paddington was not going to happen. Wokingham was looking dodgy.

Eventually the engine was attached. Further announcement: we were now waiting for signalling approval. At 2345 we pulled into Reading. Cue cheering.

The emergency accommodation in Wokingham would now rely on me getting there by some other means than the dubious rail network. Fortunately there was a nice man at Reading station who was kind enough to put me in a taxi with some other people going in the same direction. I was delighted to see my old friend Lauren waiting for me. I was exhausted (it hadn't been an easy day at work either) and I was so pleased to be somewhere safe to sleep - after a cup of tea and a brief catch up.

I made it to Alex's uneventfully in the morning. Although I did hear someone use the word heterogeneous in "normal" conversation. Hopefully my journey back to Plymouth will be unremarkable....