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.
