train journey from hell

Not an original topic I'm afraid, but I shall tell the lengthy story all the same:

I went to Oxford this weekend, a place that I am most fond of. I knew that the conference would be shite, so I planned to shimmy round town in the evenings, eating and drinking well. I met up with a good friend on Fri night, and met some interesting individuals last night. So, despite falling out with some irritating know-it-all American therapist (who was WRONG) the weekend wasn't all bad. Perhaps I shall dedicate an alternative post to the hairstyles and fashions of the delegates. If my camera had not broken (irritation #1) I would have been able to post great evidence.

Anyway, I had a grand morning today, spending time with a film maker in the sun. Upon leaving the conference, bizarrely, the tale takes a sorry turn. Taxi was late. Actually it didn't turn up. This has happened to me twice before in Oxford. And I'm sure it will again. Then I'll wish that I had read my own ranty blog and learned my lesson. I eventually managed to hail a cab, which got me to the train station with 1 min to spare. Rushing over the platforms ruined my lungs, and I arrived (just in time - hurrah!) onto the busiest train ever (bar one*) hyperventilating.

I like to be organised and I usually arrive well early for my travels, mainly to ensure a decent seat is captured. So unsurprisingly on this occasion I was crammed into a carriage end with my belongings. Nearby there was a sign outlining complaints and comments procedures for Virgin. How ironic. Now you know the tale will turn sour. But luckily (for now) it had a train route map alongside, so I busied myself attending to that for 30mins or so. At this point, once my breathing had reached regularity, I was relatively content.

The next stop (Banbury) filled the train, for some reason. Disproportionately so - it's not a big town. Nice, though. I have to say that as it is my sister's new home town and she may read this. I tried to squeeze myself to a seat. To no avail. I had to crouch painfully in a doorway, which made my hip lock when someone rammed a bag into my head, luring back an old dance injury. I now could not sit due to space restrictions, nor crouch due to injury. At Birmingham International (3 stops, and an hour ish later) I manage to get into the carriage and find a seat, albeit alongside a sleeping fattie taking up too much space. I carefully plan where I will move to at the next stop, as my seat was reserved from New Street onwards. This all goes to plan, although there were many arguments between angry passengers wedged between luggage. So, hurrah, I have a seat next to a man with large elbows. I do some reading. Until Tamworth. For those less familiar with train routes than myself, this is the next stop on this Virgin Bournemouth to Newcastle route. At Tamworth someone asks for my seat. Only because Big Elbows refuses to move. So I oblige. Back to standing. For 2 hours.

This was painful, and I was unhappy. I tried to do some work, as I have much to do, although there was not enough room to find my pen from my bag. This had to be violating some health and safety standard. Lowley would have his work cut out for him in such a company. Incidentally the usually 3 hour journey was scheduled to take 4 and a half, today, due to maintenance. Alright, they gave us prior warning. But when we hear that "the train is travelling at a cautionary speed due to children playing on the track" I lose patience. Run the fuckers down. Darwin would have allowed it. Stupid kids shouldn't be allowed to live and breed more stupid kids. Get rid.

Around this point some wanker thought it would be hilarious to stink out the vestibule. I would have found it amusing, had it not been full of 11 people plus luggage. I have to reveal (purely to get Lordie on my side) that the same bloke had a conversation with his mate that went like this:
"Barnsley's a shit shop."
"Yeah, Barnsley's a shit shop."
"Yeah, shit shop."
"Yeah."

At Sheffield I get a seat, hurrah, methinks. But, alas, who do I sit next to? Aging rocker with his Ozzy CD on full blast. Aging rocker smacks his hands on his thighs to the music. But not in time. If you have ever tried clapping/dancing off-rhythm, you will know that this is a near impossible task to master. This guy was amazing at it, however. Yet this guy was a peach compared to the waffy tramp on my other side. Thankfully there was a luggage filled aisle separating us, but this did not prevent him staring at me (until he was thrown off, about 50 mins later) or talking to himself, in my direction. He was mumbling what can only be described as satantic verses, and he smelt of sheep. I could not move. Trapped. In a nightmare. I felt physically sick from the stench. The guy moved behind me at one point and talked over my headrest at me. I ignored, of course, for fear of shouting abuse at him be taken as encouragement of some kind. The woman next to him left immediately, telling the carriage that she was disgusted at his "stink". Sheep.

I eventually arrive home, 5 1/2 hours later, and the lock to my front door had broken. It takes forever to get in.

There is an upside, though:
(1) My bug ridden flat was more welcoming than ever. We have bonded, since.
(2) I justified scrapping the diet and eating some cake, as the day had been so traumatic.
(3) I have a theme for my blog (see amended title)! All posts are ranty. Hurrah!

Moon.xxx


* This particular occasion was hilarious. I was leaving Sheffield after seeing friends for a weekend and found my train. It was so full that people were saying goodbye to their loved ones who were literally pushing them on the train. I saw one person bounce right back off the full train onto the platform. Aforementioned loved ones were pushing them back on, hoping that when the doors closed they would not be squished. They were, the doors jammed and they could not travel. Hilarious.