Waiting Rum

I travel so many miles on the railways I might as well be an engine driver.  Most of the time it’s pretty good; this week it’s been horrendous.  At least once each day in the last three days, I’ve found myself stranded at stations having missed connections because of faulty trains.  Never mine.  Always the one in front. Never the one behind, damn it.  If it was mine, I could dismiss it as Just Typical and feel ever-so-slightly guilty for jinxing my fellow passengers.  But with my carriage faultless, this is a particularly sadistic form of inconvenience - the poor souls on the broken loco don’t even know that the person to blame is sitting a few miles behind them.  And so it is that I miss the Once in a Blue Moon connection.

Now I’m not sure which rules apply to British railway stations but I’m pretty sure that they defy most the of the laws of physics.  Light cannot penetrate them and time slows to an imperceptible crawl.  They induce a heaviness that is only equalled by the gravitational pull of a collapsing star and they are among the most depressing places known to man, second only to my Great Aunt Mary’s Front Room.  The waiting rooms are the final refuge of the desperate, the destitute and the deranged.  Usually there’s one of each.  Including me.

In traditional English social gatherings, it is customary to keep as much distance as possible between you and the fellow guests.  While the man talking to his coffee cup and rocking gently seemed to understand these conventions, the drunkard smelling of urine didn’t.  He was very keen to strike up a conversation.  I’m not entirely sure but he seemed to want to chat about ya-bloot-sen-a-ticket-fer-noboo-n-neebee.  We chatter amiably enough, albeit one-sidedly and punctuated with growling, for a little over half an hour before he fell asleep on my shoulder.  Thankfully, it was only a further twenty minutes before I had an excuse to move and leave him dribbling contently on the ripped seat.

I eventually fell through my front door only a little later than if I had walked the hundred or so miles.

Comments

[Mrs RW]

Another bubble burst. I always thought that the trains in the UK ran on time, had friendly conductors, and gorgeous scenery - sort of like the Hogwarts Express. Damn, now I can't ride the UK rail.

[Carlton]

Mrs RW, please don't fret, visitors the UK are always gently shephered to Platform 9 3/4 at Kings Cross.