The 0707 from Stockport is a joyless experience, particularly on a Friday morning. Was I not concentrating when I decided to tack on a day of meetings as the last rites are given to another brutal week? But, here we are in the rain as the jockeying for position on the platform edge commences as soon as the impending arrival is announced. The train of course is late having managed to lose 4 minutes during the scheduled 7 minute journey from Manchester Piccadilly, the point of origin. I often wonder just how could this be possible, but resist the urge to clamour for nationalised Railways as “Brother Jeremy” is want to do.
A motley crew of some of the finest business types the north west have to offer; dressed it must be said, in a wide variety of ill fitting suits, crumpled chinos and the odd hoodie; gather and guard their prized spot on the edge of the platform with the same intensity of a bull elephant and its intended Marula tree.
The 0707 arrives and our intrepid bunch have miscalculated their position and set off in the direction of the errant “none stop to Euston, saver tickets are not valid on this service” and stop immediately in front of those of us who have course, calculated the position of the door with the precision of a Swiss Jeweller. The temptation is to grab them and their budget wheely suitcases and bundle them onto the track but sadly the 0707, and that pointless internal meeting set for just after arrival, waits for nobody, not even a generous, kind hearted vigilante like me. So of course I allow them their pyrrhic victory, safe in the knowlege that H43, complete with full window and easy access has been reserved for your truly. No need for battle to commence.
Once aboard and the scrum for seats is completed I settle down into my aisle seat, hoping against hope that it really will be the quiet carriage. Of course the inevitable group of 4 noisy trade union officials has already gathered, determined to while away the next 115 minutes with the usual crushingly dull, inane, but nevertheless loud conversation, at “volume 10”, only ever witnessed in ….. the quiet carriage. Repleat with copies of the Daily Mirror, Sun and the Star, they are off to pay their last respects to that great representative of integrity and socialism, a former head of their Trade Union no less, who fortunately passed away some 10 days before, a victim surely of one too many examples of a fine Pauillac and barely cooked Chateaubriand. His remembrance will of course resemble that of a Russian state funeral, the irony lost on most of the attendees who sadly don’t know the difference between the said Pauillac and a Pontiac.
Opposite me is as fine an example of man spreading as you will ever see and for some reason the occupant, is insistant on breathing through his mouth, each one sounding like his last as he carefully taps and clicks his way loudly, but slowly, very slowly, through yet another meaningless email on his iPad. His “Full English” arrives in due course and the ensuing feeding frenzy provides an alternative, but not relief to the earlier noisy tapping. My travelling colleague digs deep and attacks the rather generous plate with gusto, although the simultaneous act of eating and breathing is now becoming a real chore. I worry for his health, but I am soon relieved to learn that the 0707 has a travelling coroner “just in case”. So he should be ok on this occasion.
I settle down to prepare for my meetings of the day. My concentration broken by the incessant “ding”… “Swoosh” and that faux Samsung whistle which really isn’t irritating at all. Ever. “Shout, shout and shout again!” barks a self important “busisnessman” from Hale, again at full volume to nobody in particular on his mobile phone. It is almost quiet for a few seconds before the “Train Manager” (guard for older readers and a none negiotiable essential for my railway colleagues sat adjacent to me), kindly reminds us to keep our baggage with us at all times and report any “suspicous activity”. I am minded to share with him that in terms of my own baggage, I wear my council house upbringing as a badge of honour and as far as “suspicious behaviour”, well that person in 16D probably should be in standard class. However, I choose to keep my own counsel (did you see what I just did there?) and the Train Manager (guard) adds his mysterious squiggle to my ticket, unintelligble to anybody except other Train Managers the world over.
A fellow traveller crashes into the side of the head of one of the trade union officials as he makes his way past, as much out of clumsiness as spite, I suspect. It fails to dampen their spirits somewhat. There is a somber air in carriage as my right honourable friends realise the sliced white toast has run out before we have even reached the environs of Nuneaton and the last drops of tepid palid tea have been extracted from the ubiquitous earns, unsuprisingly really as they have been offered every 30 seconds since we left Stockport. With the hard part of the journey completed, they now rest, snoring like a family of warthogs, stirring only as the train slows harshly for that all important stopping service ahead just south of Watford Junction. Of course the train manager/guard announces on the ear bleedingly loud Public Address system, that he regrets we will be 5 minutes late into London Euston. A Samsung whistles. An iPhone dings and then “swooshes” as it’s owner, ever omnipresent, rushes to answer that life or death whatsapp message.
Euston is reached all too soon and with my newly acquired tinnitus, I battle on, head down, to my own rendezvous, the one that waits for no one, the taxi queue.
