A Nightmare Journey

Some very dear and good friends invited me to a party in London today. The party was starting at lunchtime and sounded good fun. It also promised the opportunity to meet up with many other old friends whom I had not seen for a long time. I definitely wanted to go.

On the down side, I live quite a long way from London. The train journey, even on a good day in the middle of the week, takes almost two hours. On a Sunday, this can be considerably more. And I could not stay in London: guests to dinner and work tomorrow. However, the party sounded too good to miss and, as I said, they are very good friends. So, I booked my train ticket (for an extortionate amount of money) and set my alarm accordingly, a thing I never do on Sunday mornings.

Unfortunately, my subconscious brain had obviously decided that it did not listen to alarms on Sunday. When I finally awoke, I stretched luxuriantly, rolled over in bed and told myself how much I liked Sunday mornings. I turned on the radio and lay there in a contented fugue. I am not sure what triggered the memory, but suddenly there it was: you are going to a party; you have to get on a train.

I hurled myself from my bed, drew a bath, rang for a taxi to get me to the station. By the time I left the house, I was more than half an hour later than I had intended and I had missed the fast train. The slow train, I have to tell you, is just that: it stops at every pile of bricks on the route, plus some unscheduled places that I couldn’t understand. A journey that would normally take an hour and three quarters took just over three hours.

But it didn’t really matter. The train was comfortable, I had my laptop and was able to do the work that needed doing today; and parties like this are not timetabled affairs. I told myself to relax and got on with the paper I had to write. When we eventually arrived, I made a beeline for the taxi queue (inevitably today very busy) and waited my turn.

My taxi driver was in a bad mood. He complained about the bollards; about the weather  (admittedly awful), about the traffic (negligible), about the new one-way systems. I was glad to alight.

The party was wonderful. So was the food. So was the company. I regretted that I could only stay two hours, but was glad that I had made the effort. All too soon, I had to start making my farewells. Back in a taxi, I reflected on a really good party and the pleasure of old friends.

I reached the station. I strolled towards the platform: the platform number was not yet up. When it appeared, I headed for the barriers. Just as I got through I heard my name called: it was a friend from work. We chatted as we headed for the train. Now, I have a dreadful confession to make: I travel First Class. I know it is extravagant, but it is far less so than most people think and it is so much more comfortable. I just try and book tickets early. So, as we headed for the train, I slightly sheepishly confessed this and stopped at the First Class carriage. We said goodbye and she went on. I boarded the train and settled down.

Now, I have to confess that I had consumed some alcohol at the party. Further, meeting R distracted me somewhat. I was slightly surprised that nobody else boarded the train, but I didn’t get really concerned until the departure time came and went and the train did not move. Suddenly, lots of people were boarding the train. I asked one of them.

I am sure I do not need to spell it out. I had missed the little letter b after the platform number. I was on the wrong train. My train had departed, on time and, presumably, with my ex-friend on it. She must have known I had boarded the wrong train. Why didn’t she tell me? Or maybe she missed it too? I shall find out next time we meet.

In the mean time, I am on a later train. My dinner party is ruined – I shall have to cook something very simple – and I cannot be bothered to do any more work.

Remind me never to travel on Sunday and, particularly, not to travel after a good party! On the other hand – the party was truly worth it.