Trains and Rain

Rain does not affect trains in a positive way. Well, excessive rain, I mean.

Yesterday, had all day 'New Staff Orientation Seminar'. Yippee. Actually, it really wasn't so bad; I got to meet two knitters/crocheters and a Rotarian! So, hurrah!

Just when one would have thought I had enough fun for the day... then it really started.

Left UEA on 4.05 bus headed to rail station for 5.00 train. Bus took 40 minutes to go all 7 miles or whatever, leading me into advanced high blood pressure and hyperventilation. Sprinted across traffic in hysterical manner to station at 4.53, screeched to halt at display screen... to find: TRAIN CANCELLED.

So, One Railway was kind enough to apologise over loudspeaker every 2m34sec for the cancellation (although the British do have A LOT of things to learn about customer service in general, I do appreciate the fact of apologies in failed service situations) and also organised a replacement service to run at 5.20 (in addition to the normal one at 5.30). Train pulled in at 5.17, mad frantic cram onto train, train departed 5.23, went approximately 100 yards and stopped for 3 minutes. This was not an auspicious start.

But, then we got going along at a nice clip. Toodling, toodling towards Liverpool Street, knitting away merrily, not going to have any problem making connection because due to arrive 1 hour before train left Paddington (hums to self hopefully). Then train just bloody STOPS. Dead. For 24 minutes. On a bridge. There was some problem in Kelverton with a broken train stuck in the station and we happened to be on the track behind it. I am quite confident that the 5.30 Norwich train zoomed past us, as one of the many that did.

At this point, beginning to see that a 7.53 arrival into Liverpool Street is not really going to allow an 8.15 departure from Paddington. Begin to think horribly paranoid thoughts about them not letting me on next train without paying penalty fare or buying whole new ticket and plan means of working self up into hysterical scene. Dart off train at 7.53.14 and run flailing to Underground; am on Hammersmith train by 7.55 and sweating. Notice clock at Euston station (the stop before Paddington) at 8.14 -- although has anyone ever noted that every clock in every station is completely different from every other clock in every other station and always from your own? So how in God's name does anyone really know if a train is on time or not?

Finally, arrive Paddington and am crushed up the stairs with the entire human contents of the train, run to rail connection area. I think I missed my train by two minutes.

Fortunately, was not forced to create hysterical foaming-at-the-mouth scene as customer service lady stamped my ticket for the 9.15 train and said everything would be fine. So, I got to watch screaming children for an hour and debate whether sustenance was called for. Decided against it as stress makes one kind of queasy.

*interlude of observation*

You know how sometimes you will drive past a field of cows and they are all facing and staring in a random direction (where there is absolutely NOTHING of possible interest)? Train stations are kind of like that, except there is something of interest. These masses of people (myself included) stand/sit in visual line of the display boards waiting for platform number to reveal itself. And it is not just when your train info is imminent (like 2 or 3 in the queue on the board); we stand there staring when we know it is entirely too early, just trying to will the board to tell us the future. It is kind of funny. And then, when the board does communication its plan for our behaviour, a mass of people rises and moves as one toward the few little slots to enter whichever platform.

*We now move into usage of the past tense*

So, the mass of humanity rushed onto the train, train left on time, and I settled in to be content on the journey, even though I would now be arriving at 11.37 instead of 10.26...

UNTIL, the man across the aisle chose to take the opportunity of trying to chat up dingbat 2nd year uni girl at his table. The man was mid-40s and the girl was, like, studying Zoology, because she, like, likes animals and stuff. His cunning chat-up plot was talking about Monarch Butterflies' migratory habits between California and Mexico and he had this lovely Valleys accent (Welsh Valleys accent is v. distinctive and sing-songy if you aren't aware of this. It is rather looked down upon, though, by a lot of people.). No, this doesn't sound so bad, BUT I just wasn't in the mood to listen and my ear refused to block out his voice as boackground noise. And he was speaking really pretty loudly. He took approximately three breaths between London and Swindon (and this is a long way).

Then one of the screaming children from the station appeared in our car, at the table in front of me. And it proceeded to shriek. Not out of pain or suffering, just for the heck of it. It was a piercing sound. Cuteness factor is completely negated when pointless shrieks begin. Additionally, it's mother kept getting up and going to the luggage rack and digging out bottles and diapers and loud video games for the sibling. Every time she did this, the door sensor went off WHOOSHing the door open and shut. And open and shut. And open and shut. And open and shut. (Picture clear?)

My sweater suffered irreparable damage through all this (as did my patience) and will have to be ripped out YET AGAIN. Although this time, I think I have a cunning plan to improve my previous alteration attempt with regard to gauge, so in that sense, we have a silver lining (a silver lining with a headache).

Finally after a lot of people debarked signalling possibility of space in next car, I pretended to go to the loo. I gathered my yarn, my book and my phone, slyly grabbed bags as passed luggage rack (WHOOSH) and moved to next car. Monarch butterfly man was still whittering on, and by this time the girl expressed her thought that 'it might be kind of cool to do a PhD' --because she worked in Uruguay with injured pumas one summer. Okay.

Can I say that it was nice to get to Cardiff?

My goal for the weekend is to tie up some more loose ends (e.g. collecting tax forms, going to B's leaving-do from L&G, delivering birthday pressies, coffee, cleaning Gold Street, turning keys back in to horrid estate agents, going to IKEA). So, perhaps I had best get going instead of faffing about on the internet. Tee hee.