The week before last, we had a lot of snow. On the first serious snow day, I had to be in Leicester. As luck would have it, I had planned to go by train, which was obviously a very good thing. Sadly, I am not good at snow, and I am VERY bad at ice. Unfortunately, even after all these years in this country, I still do not really get the whole proper shoes bit. So, to cut a long story short, I set off for the train in a pair of shoes with absolutely no tread. Disaster was practically guaranteed.
During the day, this did not matter. I was careful, and I was with a wonderful colleague who ferried me about in his car and made sure that I did not have to cover vast sweeps of ice. All went well and, as I caught the train home, I was congratulating myself. I alighted somewhat gingerly at Nottingham, and headed for the entrance. I was late (about 9.30 p.m.), and in a hurry, because poor Molly cat had been alone since eight o'clock that morning and would be cross and hungry.
For those of you who do not know Nottingham, I must explain that the station is undergoing a major refurbishment, with all the chaos that implies. The main entrance has been moved to a side road, but I still use the 'old' main entrance to get in and out, because I find it more convenient. On that day, I did precisely that, and emerged onto the street. The pavement there is very wide, probably about 6 feet (sorry, I don't do metric!) and, to my horror, it had not been gritted. As I stepped out, it was sheet ice under my feet, and I only saved myself from falling my grabbing at the coping on the wall. I will not pretend that I was not shaken, but I had to get round the corner to the taxi rank (no way I was walking home in this) so, still clutching the wall, I took a tentative step. My foot slipped; I clung on for dear life, but did not fall. Grimly I thought, I can do this if I can hang on to the wall. Three shaky paces later, I came to the place where they had turned the pavement into a slight incline to allow for wheelchairs and pushchairs, and where there was no wall. In despair, I clung to my piece of wall and considered my position.
I have to confess that at this point I was feeling like a toddler needing its Mummy. However, I obviously had to behave like a grown-up, so I decided that my best bet was to return to the station entrance in the same ignominious manner that I had achieved my two yards of progress, ring for a taxi and explain that the driver would have to come as close as possible and would have to get out and help me across the ice. I was psyching myself up to do this, when a voice said "Are you alright?"
At this point, I was facing the wall. I turned my head tentatively and there was a lady (I use the term advisedly), younger than I am, but not in the first flush, so to speak, smiling at me. I was totally taken aback, but I am also a Mediterranean. Any proper Brit would have replied, 'yes, fine, thank you' and watched her walk away. I did no such thing. I summoned up my Mediterranean heritage and explained, in florid detail, what the problem was. Her smile was kind. She offered her arm. I demurred. She explained that she had good shoes and that if I held on to the wall with one hand and her with the other she would get me to a taxi. And she was as good as her word. She walked me the fifty or so yards to the taxi, waited till one arrived, and helped me into it. She was amazing and wonderful.
I wish, now, that I had asked her who she was, so that I could offer her dinner some evening. If, by any unlikely chance, you are reading this, please get in touch. In the mean time, all I can say is that she restored my faith in humanity. I would never have expected this to happen. Thank you, dear lady.
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