“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!
