Overheard on a train ...

I must admit to being a bit of a snob, but an extra 300 quid to travel first class was a little steep, even for me.  So my six-hour train journey to see Becky would have to be spent amongst ‘normal’ people.  It shouldn’t be too bad I reckoned.  I had reserved table seats all the way, got lots of reading to do.  And anyway, I like trains.

First leg:  Scarborough to York

One minute before departure, seated alone at the table, I thought I was safe.  Ah… perhaps not.  A middle-aged woman, a couple and a baby in a pink Cinderella carriage that was too big to get between the seats got on and joined me.

…maybe I should have paid the £300…

I smiled politely, as one does, and shoved my studious and slightly stuck up nose in my Kindle.

The book I’m reading, however, could not hold my attention when pitched against my fellow travellers’ babbling.   There followed a near violent verbal exchange regarding which one of them had had the least sleep the night before and who was the most tired.  The sleep snatchers included the baby, the dog, the window, the quilt thief, the wind, the rain, the neighbours  ….

Perhaps you should all take this opportunity to shut your gobs and have forty winks then…

It wasn’t to be.  There was then a row over the difference between paying rent four-weekly, or by calendar month - sorry – munff, and money-grabbing landlords in general.

Being one of those money-grabbers, I pressed my face closer to my Kindle, but was too late to miss the girl in the glittery bobble hat and matching glittery T-Shirt expose the livid, purple stretch marks on her expectant belly, still raw from the child in the pink Sherman tank.

I should definitely have paid the extra £300…

Not unhappily, we parted company in York, where I grabbed a sausage butty and a bowl of latte in the station pub.  It stank of mucky mops and was empty but for a small crowd hovering around the fruit machine, perhaps hoping they would win enough to upgrade to first class…

Second leg:  York to Basingstoke

The train was packed.  They poured into the carriage from both ends and I was obliged to carry my weekend case over my head as I squeezed past aisle blockers too large to be allowed on public transport.  Eventually, having deposited my luggage, I found my seat.   Despite the fact that the table was full of litter and the seats were cramped and hard, I was pleased to be seated opposite two nice Geordie lasses and next to a pleasant, and thankfully, quiet, young chap.

We all did the polite smiley thing again, and as I was to spend four hours on this train, I settled down for a good listen.  This time I eavesdropped on excited chatter that focused on the joys of shopping; designer handbags; face creams and holidays to New York and Egypt.  Then we had weddings, enormous pink hats and Shirley Valentine.

An hour into the journey I was most impressed to see a bottle of Moet appear from the classy lady’s bag and even more impressed when she insisted that the silent young chap and me have a glass!  

I’ve always loved Geordies…

Naturally we were not so rude as to refuse, so we shared a pleasant glass with the two of them.

“What are you celebrating?”  I asked.

“Shopping!” they declared in unison, with a degree of enthusiasm that I could only wonder at.

We did however decline a second glass, but as their champagne flowed, their conversation switched to the size of “so and so’s house” and “Eee, she looked a bugger in that dress mind…”

By the time we reached Derby my legs were going numb and a small child had started to wail.   By Birmingham the baby bawled ferociously and I was now desperate for the wine trolley.  I tried not to be cross at Banbury when a ‘sniffer’ got on and parked himself and his noisy nose just a few seats away.   Once he caught my disapproving glance he merely doubled his efforts to be disgusting.

I was sad to see the two nice Geordie lasses leave for their shopping extravaganza at Leamington Spa and wished them well in their endeavours.

An elegant woman with a laptop took their place.  A solicitor I decided, on hearing her speak on the phone about a conveyance that morning.   So why wasn’t she in first class?  When she paid for a sandwich with a credit card I guessed she was too tight or too skint.

But I had my wine now so I really didn’t care.

By Oxford, my legs were actually numb.   But the baby was now quiet.  At Reading the ‘sniffer’ got off and things were definitely on the up because Basingstoke now beckoned…

Third leg:  Basingstoke to Hook

Ah, this is the way to travel!  I had the entire carriage, and quite possibly the train all to myself. 

Shame this part of the journey lasted all of four minutes!

But regardless of the trials and tribulations of train travel, it was worth every second of the six hours it took to be able to spend a fabulous weekend with my little Bex.

  

Puppy Power!

It’s finally happened.  Time and circumstance have conspired to chip away at my long held beliefs and smash those staunch opinions that I imagined I would spout until I could spout no more. 

For more than half a century both Nigel and I have been anti-dog people.  This means being mildly irritated by the doggy chat of dog lovers; somewhat bored with the protestations of their pooches’ personalities and utterly bewildered by the outpourings of grief should one of these precious pets die.

In the last couple of years, however, we’ve moved from tolerance to genuine fondness of Ellie’s and Becky’s dogs ‘Pepper’ and ‘Silva’ and have quite enjoyed having Silva about the house whilst Becky and Daz have been staying with us.   But despite the fact that these Miniature Schnauzers, (or Disney Dogs, as Nigel calls them) are about as endearing as dogs can be, we would never, ever actually own one!

So, how is it that there are now three dogs in our house?

Well, it all seemed like a good idea at the time…

Worried about Silva being alone during the day when they move into their new home, Becky and Daz had decided to get another little puppy to keep her company.   

Any sensible person would have just let that happen and kept well out of it.  But no … I just had to get involved!  Whether it was the influence of drink, middle-aged madness or the relentless bullying from my two daughters, the temptation to surprise Nigel with an early birthday present was just too much to resist.

In an instant, enquiries were made at Pepper and Silva’s birthplace, and the last two puppies of the current litter were secured.   Off went Ellie and Bex on their secret mission to collect them before anybody could come to their senses!

A few hours later, two little bundles of fluff arrived home.  The bigger one, we had been warned, was the naughty one, whereas the teeny weeny one was nice and shy.  We had agreed, in our plotting, that Nigel should be allowed to choose.  Once he had recovered from the shock, he chose the little one.  Yippee!  Bex gets all the trouble and we get all the snuggles!  Nigel immediately christened his puppy ‘Bodger’ and his mischievous brother was named ‘Milo’.

 … And so it began…

You know when they say, “dogs are for life…” do they actually mean that some kind of swap takes place?   So, you get the dog, and the dog gets your life?  Is that how it works?   

I really don’t remember being obliged to accompany our babies into the back yard at two in the morning, huddled against the driving rain, tiptoeing carefully amongst the slugs, only to indulge in a ridiculous display of exuberance once the puppies had ‘performed’.  This in itself would not be so bad, but as both puppies have had the runs, our attention to toilet monitoring duties has been interminable. 

By day three, I was bog eyed, boggle brained and bogged off.  My once immaculate home was now littered with puppy paraphernalia, and doubled as a receptacle for countless accidents!  Had it not been for Becky and Daz – especially Daz – who had sacrificed his entire leave to puppy-sit; there is no doubt that my sanity would have deserted me entirely.

I have been twice to the vets already and am becoming terrifyingly aware of the dizzying array of doggy diseases and feel hopelessly out of my depth if one of them so much as sneezes!

On meeting the rest of their doggy family it soon became clear that not everybody was to fall instantly in love with these two newcomers.  Pepper, the matriarch of this schnauzer brood, adamantly refused to have anything to do with these boisterous, bothersome boys.  Poor Silva, who was instantly adopted as their surrogate mother, has been tortured with unremitting attention.  Worryingly, there was even a point where I feared for Silva’s honour, as Milo demonstrated a disturbingly well-developed sexual prowess for one so young!  As it is, now that Silva has had the ‘op’ she has been forced to flee this place of torment to recuperate in safety with her sister. 

Not surprisingly, Milo’s antics got the better of him and an injured leg served to dampen his ardour.  We sighed in relief as we awaited a moment’s respite.  But no, it wasn’t to be.  The once timid Bodger took on the mantle of ‘devil-dog’ and set about trying to murder me with carelessly discarded toys or by launching himself at my very tired feet.

But in spite of the sleepless nights, early mornings and my zombie-like state of mind, the puppies playful frolicking has provided Nigel with more entertainment than a dozen first-rate films and, once Silva and Milo leave for their new home, he can look forward to many hours of soothing snuggling with his new friend.

But they do sleep.  Even now.  And when they do, they are sooooooooo cute!

Over the last two weeks Nigel and I have looked at each other many times with bemused expressions on our faces, shaking our heads in disbelief as we have pondered on the people we have become.  For here we are, indulging in the doggy chat that once irritated us, describing our pooches’ personalities as though they were people and understanding completely how grief-stricken we would be if anything happened to our precious pets.

Life has a habit of sneaking up on you and surprising you in the strangest of ways!

"The drunkards now arriving at Platform Five..."

“Coffee…” we’d said would start our day in York.  “We’ll have a nice cuppa!  Maybe even a scone…”

As sensible ladies we’d done all the planning.     Melanie had her return ticket to Newcastle and I had mine to Scarborough.  Plenty of time for a leisurely lunch and a good old natter.   To preserve the precious minutes I had a list of five restaurants, all within a hundred yards of each other, all having sun terraces.

Ten minutes later than scheduled, Mel’s train pulled into the station and off we set towards the centre of the city, wearing our smart new outfits, manicured and pedicured to perfection!

Perhaps it was those ten minutes that did it?

By the time we had reached the first of the potential restaurants it was almost noon.   “Coffee?”  (Out of the question.)   “Gin and tonic?”   (Obligatory.)  “Large?”  (Not obligatory.)  “Of course!”

And a little while later… “Another…?”

A most pleasant hour of girlie gossip went by until our rumbling tums demanded food.

Given the glorious Mediterranean weather, we opted for a Spanish restaurant complete with sunny roof terrace, jugs of sangria, a sumptuous selection of tapas, soulful music and even, as Mel pointed out, a “gorgeous” Spanish waiter.

Another most pleasant hour passed…

Sated with tapas and sangria, but still an untapped reserve of chatter, it was only right that we sample the Spanish wine. 

Another very pleasant hour…

After which, we decided to slide stylishly from the Spanish restaurant to seek another terrace in the vicinity of the station, ready for the ultimate dash to catch our pre-booked trains.

We came upon the well-kept secret of a delightful beer garden at the end of a long tunnel of stinking cellar bars.  To minimise garden to bar journey time we determined that a bottle at a time, and probably two, should be the plan.  

At some point in this delightful garden, one of us (and I swear it was Melanie) said, “We’re not going to bother catching those trains are we?”  By now we couldn’t quite remember which idiot had decided that pre-booking the trains was a good idea!

Another pleasant hour… or was it two…?

Some time later, we arrived at the station.

Perhaps it was our earlier sensible planning, or perhaps we were drawing on some subconscious knowledge, but we seemed to know that we should head for Platform Five.  Once there, we’d check out the arrival times of the Newcastle and Scarborough trains, grab a seat and wait.  Sorted.

Obviously, Platform Five was over the damn bridge.

We made it up the first flight of steps without incident.  Once on the bridge, the need to concentrate was overwhelming and I was compelled to grip the bannister and tiptoe across, taking teeny tentative steps, as though as I was traversing a span of spewing red-hot lava on a bridge made of paper.     

Despite my caution I remember crashing into one of those invisible 3’ wide pillars but I have only a vague recollection of Melanie, a vision in pink, tumbling down the steps at the other side!

We worked our way to Platform Five with that kind of wide-legged wobble one adopts when walking on water. 

Right then … expected times of arrival?

We struggled to find our sea legs as we gazed at the infuriatingly fast-moving information boards.   In spite of Mel’s superb new contact lenses and my laser eye surgery we were quite unable to read a single thing.   Not our fault, you understand … they just change so quickly!

“Why do they make it so difficult!” we railed, as the first prickle of panic began to prod my pickled brain. 

After an awfully long time we concluded that, actually, there was no such place as Newcastle, and Scarborough had simply slipped into the sea.  There were no such towns on those stupid boards!    

We were, without question on the right Platform.  It must be Platform Five!  It’s always Platform Five! 

We circled the Platform in a deliberately threatening fashion in order to assert our authority over it.  We stopped intermittently to scowl in fury at the false information being forced upon us. 

This strategy clearly worked.  A train bound for Newcastle duly arrived.   A quick hug and Mel launched herself on the train and I imagine plonked herself down on the first available seat.  It was then that I remembered a snippet from our earlier sensible planning….

If she were to fall asleep on the train there was every chance that she’d end up in Aberdeen…

I’ll ring her in an hour, I vowed.  Wake her up.  If I can find my phone. 

All alone, I looked around in the hope that my eyes would now work.  They didn’t.  Scarborough was still off the map.

Right then!  I’ll get a taxi!  Sod it!  But no.  There was no way I could cross that paper bridge again.  I was stuck here on Platform Five.

As walking on water was becoming somewhat tiresome I looked for a bench on which to sit.  No such luck.  All were taken.  Fearful of falling, I was driven to hug one of those pillars whose sole purpose is to support the roof.  This is not an easy thing to do with any degree of elegance. 

Train after train thundered by the platform.  Clearly, if I was ever to let go of this pillar and get home, I was going to have to speak to someone. 

“Ish thish the Shkarbra train…?” I asked in what I imagined was my posh voice to whichever poor passenger was standing closest to my pillar and me. 

At last it worked!  I got a nod!  I was saved!  Scarborough lives!

When the Inspector asked me for my ticket I adopted a pitiful face and told him I’d missed my earlier train and I was really really sorry…

Got away with that one too!

I was picked up in Scarborough by my sober, superior and somewhat stern-faced daughter and deposited at home with a thinly disguised ‘tut’. 

I found my phone (along with half a bottle of wine) and remembered Melanie and Aberdeen.   I was delighted to learn that Mel had made it to Newcastle, managed the Metro, and found her front door all by herself!  Impressed.

Whilst I’m sure that Patsy and Eddie from Ab Fab would have been proud of us, I’m equally sure that Mel and I would shudder if we were to see our antics on CCTV.

However, in spite of that, we had an ‘absolutely fabulous’ day out we now have the makings of a slightly more well considered ‘plan’.

So… until the next time!

BRING ON THOSE KETTLE BELLS ... or maybe not!

I was convinced that the hardest thing about my day today would be getting up at 5.30 am.   I was so wrong!

I will explain just how wrong I was in a moment, but first I hear you asking: why?  Why was I up so early if I wasn’t jetting off on my hols?

Well, because I’ve heard a rumour that the sun is threatening to shine, which means it’s time to squeeze into the summer togs.   Which means it’s time to deal with the flabby bits!

The plan was hatched.  I was to accompany Ellie to a ‘kettle bell’ session at her gym.  Kettle bells are, not surprisingly, kettle-shaped weights, and a kettle bell workout is supposed to burn fat like you wouldn’t believe.    

My two disgustingly fit daughters, and my maddeningly fit sister are big fans of these kettles, and as somebody who doesn’t know much about anything exercise-related, I am inclined to believe those who do.   So come on girls, get those shorts out of hiding, we’re gonna be lean and mean, toned and honed!

I suppose it would have been common sense to stop and think, for just a second, about my workout history…

A few leg lifts with Jane Fonda back in the 80s is more or less it.  Even then I was more interested in my stripy new leg warmers than actually making it ‘burn’.  

More recently I have been known to indulge in the occasional stroll with ‘Trevor’ – my friendly and undemanding treadmill.  We share a chapter from my Kindle whilst we have a little wander.

But for the last 30 years….? 

Have I been inside a gym?  Well, a couple of times.

Have I ever exercised for as long as an hour?  Er… unless cycling all day from bar to bar in Spain counts… then, no.

Have I ever exercised with weights?  Er… never.

Can anybody think of any reason why a kettle bell workout should give me any trouble? 

Course not!  No more trouble than you would expect from competing alongside Olympic swimmers having just got your 25 yards breaststroke badge.

So, there I am, looking good in the lycra, quietly assessing the expertise of my fellow kettlers.    Some skinny, some decidedly large, most many years younger and one or two even older than me.   Should be OK.  I can hold my own with this lot I reckon.   Ellie got me a baby kettle and a mat and we were ready. 

Like all idiots blissfully unaware of the consequences of their actions I urged the class to get started.      

It did.

In the first minute of the warm up I fought the urge to laugh.  I couldn’t help feeling slightly ridiculous.  What am I doing? I thought.  Am I dreaming?  It’s not even 6.05 and I’m jumping up and down like my bum is on fire! 

Let me tell you, by the end of the warm up, all traces of a smile had left my face and I was beginning to get a little worried.

We picked up our kettles and followed the instructor in performing a movement designed to tear your thighs in half and flay the fat from your buttocks.    This carried on for some time.  Then we progressed relentlessly on to torture other parts of our bodies.  I remember feeling distinctly uncomfortable as rivers of blood coursed through my head and threatened to pour from my eyes!

It wasn’t so much that I went a funny colour, more like all trace of any colour drained from my face. 

I turned to Ellie and signalled that I had to leave for a minute and fled from the room.

I never was any good at this, I reflected as I crawled into the locker room and pressed my pale cheek against the cold tiled floor.  Had I been able to breathe I may have become aware of the lingering aroma of a thousand sweaty feet, but, thankfully, breathing was still a little way off.    Even as a kid I couldn’t hack it.  Whenever I ran the 200 metres sprint I would invariably throw up and, on occasion, pass out.  I still haven’t quite got over the kiss of life I received from Mr Wynn.   Even the joy of winning the race can’t erase that dreadful memory. 

So there I lay, hugging the floor, wondering how to deal with my shame.  After a while I hid in the loo and pondered on my predicament.  What do I do now?  Go back in like nothing has happened?  Have another go?  Or just bugger off home? 

Foolishly, I went back in. 

I will not give in that easily I railed – a bloody kettle will not beat me!

Ah well.  Another fifteen minutes and out I came again!  This time it wasn’t too bad.  I had company.  Another lady (of similar age) was draped along the bench in the locker room, so I took up my cosy position on the floor and we had a nice little chat.

Ellie came to check that I was still alive and I eventually slipped back into the room that was now filled with smart-arsed exercise nuts that I hated. 

However, to my delight, they were on mats!  “I didn’t know we got to lie down!” I cried, gleefully pressing my back to my mat.   Of course we were still expected to swing our kettles about, but it’s so much easier to hide whilst on the floor – and as I had spent most of the last hour on the boards I was getting quite good at it.

Just as I was wondering if it were possible to endure this humiliation any longer, our torturer announced the cool down.    Even that had me foxed!  As if things could get any worse.   When everybody lunged to the left I lunged to the right.   I considered switching, but decided that I was far too embedded in the role of the class dunce to be bothered.   So I just kept a straight face and made out like every body else was wrong.

Ellie tried ever so hard to assure me that I didn’t make a complete fool of myself.  She has even told me that I’m due another session.  Free!   (I suspect the nice instructor lady felt sorry for me!)  But what a dilemma?  Could I possibly return?  In disguise perhaps?  A blonde wig and a Madonna facemask? 

Or, should I visit the doctor and tell her that whenever I do strenuous exercise it nearly kills me?   I suspect she’ll say: “well then don’t do it.”   This would be good advice. 

But no, I’m determined!  I’m going to bully my fitness freak daughters into helping me get fit and when I can get through a whole class of kettle bells without stopping, fainting, throwing up or seeking medical attention, I’ll buy lots of very nice wine and get myself well and truly ‘kettled’!