Do the Locomotion
Acutely aware as I am of the neglect to which I’ve subjected this blog already, I hoped to be able to take the opportunity today to fill in an entry or two.
I should point out at this stage that I wrote this entry on Friday, 15th September, not Sunday 17th. I'm uploading on Sunday though and I have no idea how to change the date of the entry, so there....
Anyway, it's Friday, I’ve been to London for a meeting, laptop in tow, and hence I expected to get the chance to put some words down in the 2-and-a-bit hours it takes to do the journey each way between London and the glorious Chester-en-le-Field (“the centre of the universe” as I heard one local refer to it recently, albeit with tongue firmly planted in cheek).
Well, on the way down there was no chance. Why? First, it’s one of the old/normal (delete as appropriate depending on when you’re reading this and how train-tech-savvy you are) style trains. Generally speaking that means cramped seats, dingy toilets and, most important, no plug socket thingies. My laptop battery is pretty crap (perhaps because I chose to save a few quid when I bought the computer and bought the lower-capacity one… damn me) so any foray into computer-land would have lasted no more than the (approximately) 9 minutes I get when running on battery power. It’s one of those Sony batteries that have had a tendency to spontaneously combust lately, so perhaps I should consider myself lucky and stop complaining.
Anyway, journey down: old style train, no plug sockets, and me not daring to run on battery to write in my blog, just in case it uses up all the battery power and I can’t plug in at the client’s offices. The client in question is LandSecurities, a multi-billion pound property company that owns and runs half the big property in the country, so Christ knows what twisted form of logic I used to allow myself to worry that they may not be able to provide access to such wonders as a mains socket within their meeting facilities, but that’s me: always the worrier.
Thankfully, I booked a First Class seat for the journey down, so at least there was the free tea and coffee (surprisingly good coffee, actually) and comfy seats to enjoy. Aside from that, the journey consisted of a fairly standard combination of reading (about 15 minutes spent half-heartedly scanning a mind-numbing Project Management book I convinced myself sometime ago it would be a good idea to read), as well as some Premier League trainsleep, which I’m pretty convinced is the same state of consciousness experienced by the Buddha, the Dali Lama, Hari Krishnas, Sting and all those meditative types when they do their thing. The only amazing thing there, I guess, is that some of these lot (save, perhaps, Sting) been achieving trainsleep (or whatever they choose to call it in their dialect) for over 10,000 years and all without the aid of a boring National Rail journey with no pluggy-in facilities.
So, anyway, here I am, sitting in Coach C of the 18.15 Midland Mainline service from London St. Pancras to Sheffield. No real reason there for a sense of delight, you might think, but, all in all, I’m pretty contented; there are a number of reasons why…
First, this is not the train I reserved a seat on. When I booked the tickets, I was thinking, rather optimistically as it turns out, that the meeting wouldn’t go on too long and that I’d be homeward bound soon enough, so I reserved on the 16.55. Anyway, the meeting went on longer than expected so I find myself here on the later train. My boss “couldn’t make” the meeting today, which I’m pretty sure means he didn’t want to be in London last thing on a Friday, which suggested to me that I had a lot of overcrowding, cramping, delays and uncomfortable sweating to look forward to in the madness that is Rush Hour. However, although it is Rush Hour on a Friday evening, I have managed, by the grace of God, to end up with a seat. My nightmares of ending up on a vastly overcrowded sweatbox with standing room only have not been borne out. Seriously and genuinely relieved, I am. Not only that, I’ve managed to secure a seat that is definitely not reserved, it’s a window seat and I’m going forwards, which means I won’t end up vomiting by the time we get to Bedford.
Second, this is one of those new(ish) style trains with the nice big bucket seats and the plug sockets where you can plug stuff (like this laptop) in. And even though I’m only in Scrubber Class™, I’m pretty sure that the seats are at least as nice as the ones I sat in in First Class of the old/normal train on the way down. So, I’m in a seat, it’s a comfy seat and I’m plugged in. That’s good so far.
Thirdly, I think it’s every Scrubber Class™ traveller’s pessimistic-yet-not-unjustified expectation that they will end up sat next to some random Scrubber who is any combination of fat and/or smelly and/or drunk and/or aggressive and/or fond of their “not-so-personal” stereo and/or a completely incomprehensible nutcase determined to engage you in “conversation”. Not so for me, thank God. Not long into writing this, a fairly pleasant looking blonde girl parks herself in the seat opposite. I didn’t say hello or anything (God forbid! I don’t want anyone thinking I’m a completely incomprehensible nutcase determined to engage you in “conversation”), but it was better than I had expected. Next, couple of normal-enough-looking business types, one of whom is wearing too much aftershave, but good aftershave at least, which actually smells fairly pleasant. So, anyway… comfy seats, plug sockets, laptop out, OK seat-neighbours.All good.
Fourth then, the carriage is nicely air-conditioned, and this makes me very, very happy. I had a horrendous time in the run-up to my meeting. It’s been really warm today: unseasonably warm for the middle of September. My journey across London involved, as it always does, use of the Tube (I, unlike certain of my bosses, don’t think that black cab is the only way to travel in London). Anyway, the hot day and busy tubes resulted in me being a touch on the flustered side when I got off the tube at Charing Cross and walked out onto the Strand. With 45 minutes to kill before my meeting I thought I’d grab some lunch so after pacing hopelessly up and down for a few minutes I decide upon Subway… big mistake! Subway on the Strand (which shares its premises, oddly enough, with easy™ internet café) is not actually a sandwich shop: it’s a f**king Turkish bath. The minute I walk in I can feel my pores screaming as they open up to let out gallons of perspiration. It is very, very hot. I’ll be ok, I think to myself, I’ll be out of here in a few minutes. So I’m standing in there, queuing up and thinking what I’m going to have and whether, even though I’m not really that hungry, I should go for a footlong since I can claim it back on expenses anyway, but I can’t concentrate because the sweat just won’t stop coming. I can feel a bead running down the bridge of my nose, making its way under my glasses and heading down to my right cheek. Another is making its way down the crease of my spine, making every effort possible to touch my shirt so that it can leave nice obvious sweat mark on the pale cotton. Suddenly, in a moment of sheer panic and exasperation, the sandwich (my beautiful, beautiful Subway sandwich) doesn’t seem so important and I leg it out of the shop. Now, with the gift of hindsight, maybe I should’ve held out because that 12-inch Chicken Teryaki with double everything on Italian Herb and Cheese would go down pretty nicely now, but we all have regrets, eh? Anyway, outside I go onto the Strand and it’s ridiculously sunny… I’m sweating… a lot… so much so that there’s a little visible wet patch on the front of my shirt, there are actual beads of sweat on my face and my back is doing its best impression of Niagara falls. My only option is to take off my jacket, which I do, and walk, John Wayne style, up the road until I find a cool spot. Thankfully, a strong breeze (Beaufort scale reference here) starts to blow and brings all-too-needed relief. Soon enough, the wet patch on the front of my shirt has dried up and I’m safe in the knowledge that the sweat won’t actually start to smell for a good few hours, so I’m safe. From ere, I’m able to make to Pret-a-Manger for a (rather excellent) sandwich and some rancid new age Green Tea drink. I forget to get a receipt, which means I can’t claim it back on expenses after all, but all I can think about is that I have, thank God, stopped sweating. Anyway, all of this is an aside, but relevant back-story as to why I’m so pleased that the carriage has air conditioning. I’ve got a seat, the seat is comfy, I’m all plugged in, my seat-neighbours look and smell OK and the carriage is air conditioned. I am a happy chappy.
So it’s here that I’m going to sign off. The Word Count tool on Microsoft Word tells me that I’ve written 1566 words, which is rather a lot and I’m pretty sure that I’m the only person who will ever read this through. The train is now somewhere between Market Harborough and home so I think I’ll use this last part of the journey for a nice bit of trainsleep.
I should point out at this stage that I wrote this entry on Friday, 15th September, not Sunday 17th. I'm uploading on Sunday though and I have no idea how to change the date of the entry, so there....
Anyway, it's Friday, I’ve been to London for a meeting, laptop in tow, and hence I expected to get the chance to put some words down in the 2-and-a-bit hours it takes to do the journey each way between London and the glorious Chester-en-le-Field (“the centre of the universe” as I heard one local refer to it recently, albeit with tongue firmly planted in cheek).
Well, on the way down there was no chance. Why? First, it’s one of the old/normal (delete as appropriate depending on when you’re reading this and how train-tech-savvy you are) style trains. Generally speaking that means cramped seats, dingy toilets and, most important, no plug socket thingies. My laptop battery is pretty crap (perhaps because I chose to save a few quid when I bought the computer and bought the lower-capacity one… damn me) so any foray into computer-land would have lasted no more than the (approximately) 9 minutes I get when running on battery power. It’s one of those Sony batteries that have had a tendency to spontaneously combust lately, so perhaps I should consider myself lucky and stop complaining.
Anyway, journey down: old style train, no plug sockets, and me not daring to run on battery to write in my blog, just in case it uses up all the battery power and I can’t plug in at the client’s offices. The client in question is LandSecurities, a multi-billion pound property company that owns and runs half the big property in the country, so Christ knows what twisted form of logic I used to allow myself to worry that they may not be able to provide access to such wonders as a mains socket within their meeting facilities, but that’s me: always the worrier.
Thankfully, I booked a First Class seat for the journey down, so at least there was the free tea and coffee (surprisingly good coffee, actually) and comfy seats to enjoy. Aside from that, the journey consisted of a fairly standard combination of reading (about 15 minutes spent half-heartedly scanning a mind-numbing Project Management book I convinced myself sometime ago it would be a good idea to read), as well as some Premier League trainsleep, which I’m pretty convinced is the same state of consciousness experienced by the Buddha, the Dali Lama, Hari Krishnas, Sting and all those meditative types when they do their thing. The only amazing thing there, I guess, is that some of these lot (save, perhaps, Sting) been achieving trainsleep (or whatever they choose to call it in their dialect) for over 10,000 years and all without the aid of a boring National Rail journey with no pluggy-in facilities.
So, anyway, here I am, sitting in Coach C of the 18.15 Midland Mainline service from London St. Pancras to Sheffield. No real reason there for a sense of delight, you might think, but, all in all, I’m pretty contented; there are a number of reasons why…
First, this is not the train I reserved a seat on. When I booked the tickets, I was thinking, rather optimistically as it turns out, that the meeting wouldn’t go on too long and that I’d be homeward bound soon enough, so I reserved on the 16.55. Anyway, the meeting went on longer than expected so I find myself here on the later train. My boss “couldn’t make” the meeting today, which I’m pretty sure means he didn’t want to be in London last thing on a Friday, which suggested to me that I had a lot of overcrowding, cramping, delays and uncomfortable sweating to look forward to in the madness that is Rush Hour. However, although it is Rush Hour on a Friday evening, I have managed, by the grace of God, to end up with a seat. My nightmares of ending up on a vastly overcrowded sweatbox with standing room only have not been borne out. Seriously and genuinely relieved, I am. Not only that, I’ve managed to secure a seat that is definitely not reserved, it’s a window seat and I’m going forwards, which means I won’t end up vomiting by the time we get to Bedford.
Second, this is one of those new(ish) style trains with the nice big bucket seats and the plug sockets where you can plug stuff (like this laptop) in. And even though I’m only in Scrubber Class™, I’m pretty sure that the seats are at least as nice as the ones I sat in in First Class of the old/normal train on the way down. So, I’m in a seat, it’s a comfy seat and I’m plugged in. That’s good so far.
Thirdly, I think it’s every Scrubber Class™ traveller’s pessimistic-yet-not-unjustified expectation that they will end up sat next to some random Scrubber who is any combination of fat and/or smelly and/or drunk and/or aggressive and/or fond of their “not-so-personal” stereo and/or a completely incomprehensible nutcase determined to engage you in “conversation”. Not so for me, thank God. Not long into writing this, a fairly pleasant looking blonde girl parks herself in the seat opposite. I didn’t say hello or anything (God forbid! I don’t want anyone thinking I’m a completely incomprehensible nutcase determined to engage you in “conversation”), but it was better than I had expected. Next, couple of normal-enough-looking business types, one of whom is wearing too much aftershave, but good aftershave at least, which actually smells fairly pleasant. So, anyway… comfy seats, plug sockets, laptop out, OK seat-neighbours.All good.
Fourth then, the carriage is nicely air-conditioned, and this makes me very, very happy. I had a horrendous time in the run-up to my meeting. It’s been really warm today: unseasonably warm for the middle of September. My journey across London involved, as it always does, use of the Tube (I, unlike certain of my bosses, don’t think that black cab is the only way to travel in London). Anyway, the hot day and busy tubes resulted in me being a touch on the flustered side when I got off the tube at Charing Cross and walked out onto the Strand. With 45 minutes to kill before my meeting I thought I’d grab some lunch so after pacing hopelessly up and down for a few minutes I decide upon Subway… big mistake! Subway on the Strand (which shares its premises, oddly enough, with easy™ internet café) is not actually a sandwich shop: it’s a f**king Turkish bath. The minute I walk in I can feel my pores screaming as they open up to let out gallons of perspiration. It is very, very hot. I’ll be ok, I think to myself, I’ll be out of here in a few minutes. So I’m standing in there, queuing up and thinking what I’m going to have and whether, even though I’m not really that hungry, I should go for a footlong since I can claim it back on expenses anyway, but I can’t concentrate because the sweat just won’t stop coming. I can feel a bead running down the bridge of my nose, making its way under my glasses and heading down to my right cheek. Another is making its way down the crease of my spine, making every effort possible to touch my shirt so that it can leave nice obvious sweat mark on the pale cotton. Suddenly, in a moment of sheer panic and exasperation, the sandwich (my beautiful, beautiful Subway sandwich) doesn’t seem so important and I leg it out of the shop. Now, with the gift of hindsight, maybe I should’ve held out because that 12-inch Chicken Teryaki with double everything on Italian Herb and Cheese would go down pretty nicely now, but we all have regrets, eh? Anyway, outside I go onto the Strand and it’s ridiculously sunny… I’m sweating… a lot… so much so that there’s a little visible wet patch on the front of my shirt, there are actual beads of sweat on my face and my back is doing its best impression of Niagara falls. My only option is to take off my jacket, which I do, and walk, John Wayne style, up the road until I find a cool spot. Thankfully, a strong breeze (Beaufort scale reference here) starts to blow and brings all-too-needed relief. Soon enough, the wet patch on the front of my shirt has dried up and I’m safe in the knowledge that the sweat won’t actually start to smell for a good few hours, so I’m safe. From ere, I’m able to make to Pret-a-Manger for a (rather excellent) sandwich and some rancid new age Green Tea drink. I forget to get a receipt, which means I can’t claim it back on expenses after all, but all I can think about is that I have, thank God, stopped sweating. Anyway, all of this is an aside, but relevant back-story as to why I’m so pleased that the carriage has air conditioning. I’ve got a seat, the seat is comfy, I’m all plugged in, my seat-neighbours look and smell OK and the carriage is air conditioned. I am a happy chappy.
So it’s here that I’m going to sign off. The Word Count tool on Microsoft Word tells me that I’ve written 1566 words, which is rather a lot and I’m pretty sure that I’m the only person who will ever read this through. The train is now somewhere between Market Harborough and home so I think I’ll use this last part of the journey for a nice bit of trainsleep.
3 Comments:
Well that was pleasant Monday-morning-with-fresh-coffee-and-reading time.
I'm glad I'm not the only one who can't cope with the horendous heat of London Tubes as well the hustle and (indeed) bustle of commuters travelling around a very busy London at Rush Hour. My recent journey to Picadilly Circus was very similar in the event of trying to get something to eat in a warmer-than-neccesary fast food chain where I ended up (rather regrettedly) going without food until a 9pm dinner.
Ah well, the charms of working outside the City and attending meetings/seminars via the form of ShitRail.
(Why don't clients come to see us?)
Too right mate. That is indeed the curse of not being London-based, but hey. It's weird the looks people give you when they ask "Where are you based" and I say "Bakewell" and you can see them trying to work out if that's in the Congestion Charge zone or not!
...or they start wondering where the nearest bakers are to purchase one of your local tarts.
For me, I normally have to follow up "Walsall" with "Next town North from Birmingham", possibly with the addition of "Sh*t-hole! Not worth visiting."
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