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.