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.
