It's probably better that the brakes are stuck on, rather than stuck off. I presume they are designed this way. Nonetheless, it's not getting us to Reading any faster and when we do manage to make it that extra 200 yards into the station no doubt we will be slung off the train. The buffet may be open but whether or not it has any lager left is debatable.
On the plus side, the train manager does sound extremely posh and domineering and not at all phased by the fact that the driver is currently smacking parts of the brakes with a rubber mallet.
Monday, May 18, 2009
Tuesday, March 3, 2009
Irritating people on trains
Third Rate Western have managed to get me to London on time this morning and, midway through the return journey, they seem in significant danger of getting me home on time too. So to while away the time, I shall direct my simmering annoyance at my fellow passengers. Specifically the one opposite me.
Perhaps the message she is trying to give out is "Look at me, I have an iPhone". Well big deal, love, we don't want to hear the damn thing beep every time you touch its screen. Perhaps this wouldn't be so bad, but it looks very much like she is trying to prove that, just like monkeys with typewriters, if you jab an iPhone enough times the entire works of Shakespeare will emerge.
I could move to the quiet coach, I suppose, but since all the table seats were removed, I'm quite keen to retain my legroom. I could vent my spleen, but she looks quite phsychotic to be honest and I'm not sure I want to incur her wrath. She is now doing the crossword and seems very pleased with herself for writing in the word "dog". Into a 6-letter space beginning with R, but at least she's enjoying herself. Ok I might have made up the bit about the dog.
Perhaps the message she is trying to give out is "Look at me, I have an iPhone". Well big deal, love, we don't want to hear the damn thing beep every time you touch its screen. Perhaps this wouldn't be so bad, but it looks very much like she is trying to prove that, just like monkeys with typewriters, if you jab an iPhone enough times the entire works of Shakespeare will emerge.
I could move to the quiet coach, I suppose, but since all the table seats were removed, I'm quite keen to retain my legroom. I could vent my spleen, but she looks quite phsychotic to be honest and I'm not sure I want to incur her wrath. She is now doing the crossword and seems very pleased with herself for writing in the word "dog". Into a 6-letter space beginning with R, but at least she's enjoying herself. Ok I might have made up the bit about the dog.
Friday, January 16, 2009
Premature seat selection
A nice dose of chaos today to remind me why I drive to work these days. Already distraught at the thought of the last off-peak train of the week, my mood was not lifted by the prospect of severe delays heading into Didcot (is there a worse place to get delayed?) caused by some kind of signalling malady. So a mad dash to the Swansea train, with a change at Swindon giving the options of picking up another service back home, or calling the wife for a more civilised journey down the M4.
As I jogged past First Class (I'm carrying quite a bit of "Christmas" weight at the moment so to say I was running would be rather dishonest) I considered for a fleeting moment diving into a large leather seat and paying the excess fare, then trying to claim it back from a hopefully understanding boss later. But the moment was fleeting, and so I settled into Coach A along with the other 400 people trying to do the same thing. Imagine, then, my horror when moments into the journey the well-spoken train manager announced that "in the interests of safety, which is his top priority" he was declassifying First Class and we were free to relax in the thickly-padded recliners, draw the curtains and snooze safe in the knowledge that in a mere 3 hours we might make it to Didcot.
Sadly, the small matter of coaches B, C, D, and E stood between me and travel nirvana, as did about a thousand disgruntled commuters so I figured that any attempts to drag myself to the buffet and beyond would be fruitless.
On the plus side, good on the train manager for not only offering up First Class for the proletariat to sample, but also for doing his damndest to make sure that 97-year-old Maureen from Hereford knew exactly where and when to change to get safely home, albeit slightly later than she had planned.
Still, not an experience that would tempt me back into the swing of public transport. Monday brings with it the pleasure once again of Radio 4 and a smooth waft down the M4 in man's greatest triumph, the motor car.
As I jogged past First Class (I'm carrying quite a bit of "Christmas" weight at the moment so to say I was running would be rather dishonest) I considered for a fleeting moment diving into a large leather seat and paying the excess fare, then trying to claim it back from a hopefully understanding boss later. But the moment was fleeting, and so I settled into Coach A along with the other 400 people trying to do the same thing. Imagine, then, my horror when moments into the journey the well-spoken train manager announced that "in the interests of safety, which is his top priority" he was declassifying First Class and we were free to relax in the thickly-padded recliners, draw the curtains and snooze safe in the knowledge that in a mere 3 hours we might make it to Didcot.
Sadly, the small matter of coaches B, C, D, and E stood between me and travel nirvana, as did about a thousand disgruntled commuters so I figured that any attempts to drag myself to the buffet and beyond would be fruitless.
On the plus side, good on the train manager for not only offering up First Class for the proletariat to sample, but also for doing his damndest to make sure that 97-year-old Maureen from Hereford knew exactly where and when to change to get safely home, albeit slightly later than she had planned.
Still, not an experience that would tempt me back into the swing of public transport. Monday brings with it the pleasure once again of Radio 4 and a smooth waft down the M4 in man's greatest triumph, the motor car.
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