Back on Track

We’ve been home a week and already S has a multitude of infectious diseases.  Travel into the deepest darkest jungle, no ill-effects whatsoever; go two miles down the road to an expensive nursery and it’s as though they are dipping the children in agar-filled play pens.

The kindergarten called this afternoon - S is poorly.  T was already on her way.  I left work too.  A bit excessive, perhaps, but another week of baby-disrupted sleep has left us all a bit fried and a sick child seems to need as many helping hands as possible.  I left at 2pm.  Still, I had enough time for a relatively relaxed journey to the station. 

No reason, no good will and no tolerance will excuse the fat Chinese family for blocking the passageway as they complimented each others’ shoes, the gnarled old man for breaking the ticket machine by force feeding it his bus pass or the young mothers who ground the escalators to a halt by sliding their babies down the rail.  I fought through them all.  It seemed that everyone in the system was conspiring to stop me getting home.  Not that I’m paranoid, you understand.  I expected fate to dump a circus troop of acrobats and performing elephants in my path just to round it off.  In the end it didn't have to:  I arrived at the station two minutes after my train left.

I waited sullenly forty minutes for the next one.  All I wanted was a train going from A to B, dropping me off at C on the way.   

As I boarded the train, something niggled.  Unusually, I checked:

‘Excuse me.  This is the train going to B, isn’t it?  And calling at C?’
“Yes sir”  replied the attendant with her plastic smile.
‘Calling at C?’
“Yes” then silently “Retard.”

I sat.  Something still didn’t feel right and it wasn’t just the chewing gum on the seat.  I could hear the hoofs of disaster rumbling in the distance.

I missed the announcement about the destination:  a grunting oaf decided to squeeze into the seat next to me when it was patently too small for his fat arse.

I panicked.  I got off the train. 

I ran the length of it to the guard.  He blew his whistle while I was a carriage away.

I shouted, ‘Is this the train to B?  Calling at C?’ 
“What?”

The doors started beeping.

‘C’ I screamed.

The doors started to close.  I jumped back on.

The train ‘manager,’ previously known as a guard, welcomed us on board.  This train wasn’t going to my station at all.  In fact, it was going to sail past my town and travel for another forty miles before stopping.  Fucking great.  I’m sorry but fucking great.

I had a blazing row with the ticket inspector who wanted to charge me for the extra distance.  Wanker.  I am not an aggressive man but seriously, I thought about punching him just so they’d stop train.  A chat with the local constabulary and I’d still be home earlier than trekking pointlessly into another county. 

It didn’t come to blows.

I watched despondently as my stop passed in a blur.

Thirty minutes later I got off the train.  With unerring predictability, I had missed the hourly train back by five minutes.

Please insert a string of expletives here.

S had gone to bed by the time I got home.  My rush back had taken more than five hours.  At the risk of sounding like an alcoholic, I drank a bottle of red wine.  All by myself.  And life felt a little better, albeit a bit more wobbly.

Comments

[Mrs RW]

Hoping you all feel better soon. Hard to say who feels worse: the parents or S.

[Daryl Walker-Smith]

Welcome back to reality Mr.C! Have been thouroughly enjoying your holiday exploits (a welcome break from office tedium!) Hope S gets better soon! Best wishes to all!