With my car still unreliable, I thought I’d take the train to work. Unlike the last time I tried it, when I sat on a non-moving train for ages before it finally departed, this morning’s left bang on time, leaving me and about four other passengers behind cursing its departing carriages.
I would have caught the wretched thing if it hadn’t been for sodding “revenue protection staff” forming a physical barrier and forcing me to waste a valuable 5 minutes buying my ticket instead of deferring the purchase to ontrain staff if and when they deign to show themselves.
So, I find myself with an hour to kill kicking my heels at Nottingham Midland railway station. I spend most of it half-peoplewatching half-paperback novel reading. While Kinsey flies out to Fort Worth, I’m trying to suppress the psychopathy bubbling over that threatens to send me amok among the passengers.
Braying fools in expensive suits and ostentatious cufflinks. Leisure travellers dawdling at the ticket counter, not knowing what type of ticket they want, and in two minds even about their destination. The pillocks who reserve seats then don’t show up. The wanker who wrote the script for the woman who taped the announcements. The cretin who thought up the pricelist for the refreshment trolley. The drunk (at 10am?!) pillocks singing, for some unfathomable reason, the theme from The Italian Job.
It’s a far cry from my normal 35 minutes up the M1 with John Waite and Winnifred Robinson. Even if they do sometimes bring on the same psychopathic reaction.