Well, as usual I am in a foul old mood where public transport is concerned! Argh damnit. At least I am getting back to my old self.
So, there was a derailment at Waterloo yesterday evening apparently. According to the internet (so this could be a load of crap) and the guard on the train this morning (who, incidently, kept changing her story every time she came over the intercom - bloody woman) there was a train coming into the station at a low speed at approximately 6.30pm and two of its carriages derailed. Thankfully (and that is meant sincerely, sincerity being something I sometimes struggle with) nobody was injured or killed. So that is good news.
Hang on a minute. You didn’t think that was it did you!? Oh please, where was the rant in that?!
Ok, at 7.30 this morning, there I am, the weary commuter settling right into my seat for the usual journey up to the city that has claimed my working hours, and with them my life. I would like to add that I was already in a pretty bad mood before the train had even pulled off because I had left my iPod on the bloody sofa in the lounge so would have to entertain myself with the book that I have been carrying around and avoiding starting because it is rather thick and just thinking about it is a bit of a mission. Ordinarily I claim my seat, pop in my much-loved ear buds and escape into my head (with all the rather rude thoughts it houses that I will not be sharing with you! You wouldn’t want to know anyway…)
So, the train pulls off just fine. But, hang on a minute… things are a little slower than usual. And then she comes over the intercom, our helpful (if rather scatty) train guard, to inform us all that there are emergency engineering works at Eastleigh (they should just blow it off the map and do us all a favour) so we will be running approximately 8 minutes behind schedule. Hmm, a South West train running late?! Well, I never…
Anyway, I prepare my face for the day with the travel make up kit that has pride of place in my bag and try to wake up enough to do a bit of reading, but my mind is elsewhere this morning. I feel like a bitch on heat. If only my fellow passengers had a clue what was going on behind my (freshly painted) closed eyelids! Again, no further information to divulge…
Back to the book. It is called The Historian by Elizabeth Kostova and was one of the zillion books I bought a wee while before I flew out to Zante. I took it with me (along with the many others) with every intention to chill out on the beach and behave in a more orderly and cultured fashion than is the norm at home, but meeting up with those Essex lads put paid to that so it just sat on the table in Jon’s apartment until I packed it up again for the flight home! Anyway, the blurb on the back indicates that it will be an enjoyable read - when I eventually get into it, a feat which is proving difficult for the time being. Perhaps it is the mountain of books waiting on the sideboard for me to plough through that is the problem. Perhaps I am subconsciously reacting to that? Or perhaps I am just too sleepy in the morning, too busy during the day, and too tired on my journey home to turn the pages and absorb the text? This morning I read the same paragraph over and over and then gave up.
So, somewhere between Winchester and Basingstoke, Ms Guard assaults our peace again, this time with the news that we are stopping at Basingstoke to allow more people to cram on the train - incidently, there are always standing passengers from Winchester anyway, so why shove on more? Who cares if they are stranded? I am afraid that my sympathy runs out on the mission that is my journey to/from work. Text the boss to let him know I am delayed but don’t know if he gets it as the bloody phone packs in. Fucking battery. Nightmare.
Anyway, not that anyone would listen to me even if I did voice my opinion on the matter, Basingstoke’s stranded commuter population do good impressions of sardines, forcing their way onto the train, demanding that people move further down so that there is more room (there isn’t any more room you bloody morons!!). More smarmy male passengers make the most of the opportunity to “accidently” press inappropriately against any females unlucky enough to be in their vicinity (read “grope”). Sods. That really fucks me off, but isn’t a problem for me this morning as I am smug in my seat, stretching out my legs under the seat in front and thanking God that I live so far out that I have never been seatless (so far… better touch wood that this remains the case. Does a veneered desk count!?). So now we are all running even later than we were before.
And then we roll soooooo slowly into Waterloo that I wonder if it is simply my perception of time fucking up. And we are, according to Ms Helpful Guard, 34 minutes late. Whoopeedoo.
Then the Jubilee line is a riot of laughs. The barriers are shut because the platforms are too crowded so a massive throng of pissed off people are gathering between the escalator by McDonalds and the grisly looking attendants preventing them passing through. “Fuck this,” thinks me, heading for the Northern line.
Eventually make it into the office at 9.40am. My boss did get my text, and when I plug the little bastard piece of technology that I feel lost without (phone,dur) in and give it some charge, I get a reply text from him informing me that the trains are all up shit creek today. This made me smile. Nice to know that my boss understands my plight rather than expecting me to work miracles when the UK train network is doing a good impression of one you might find in a third world country.
So, and wow what a blog later, I am sat here just a-wondering a-why over 12 hours on from this minor derailment all trains in the south of England are still buggered up? Hmm, perhaps they will put the fares up again and then tell us. God they’re all bastards!
