Some of this was written live, some in retrospect
A chap at Durham station said he had been waiting an hour, which suggested a cancelled train. Maggie and I caught the Trans-Pennine Express to Darlington, where we found that the train from Edinburgh had been cancelled. (The second Inter-City cancellation of the day: not that they told us, just put the letters "CAN" under the time due on the very confusing screen.)
As we whiled away forty minutes in the station buffet I said that I hoped that this weekend was the Prime Minister's constituency weekend, because he uses Darlington Station to get to Trimdon, where he lives, and I think it's crucial for important people to know what we have to suffer.
Sitting on a train resolutely going nowhere (sat in Doncaster), it finally left 10 minutes late. The guard train manager apologised for not being able to run a trolley service due to the number of people standing throughout the train. It comes to a rather steep halt, sending my - thankfully empty - coffee cup hurtling towards my lap. Does it make me feel better or worse to know that the bloke sat across the aisle reading New Statesman is Minister of State for Transport? At least, assuming he hasn't been moved in the reshuffle.
UpdateThe train is 25 minutes late out of Grantham, and will stop additionally at Peterborough and Stevenage. Meanwhile, the loo nearest to me is now refusing to flush, which rather stymied my attempt to p*ss on Grantham!
UpdateKings Cross 17:55. Only 4 1/2 hours from Durham. Pity it's timetabled at 3. Arriving at Kings Cross, I asked John Spellar whether he had been reshuffled. He smiled and then said, "No. Unless I have since I got on the train." He laughed. I think I probably did that right. He's not frightfully famous, so is only gong to be recognised by political junkies like me. But if I had spoken earlier in the journey, it might have been unnerving. One should leave Government Ministers to travel in peace. Maggie Thatcher was once confronted by an angry member of the public, and almost never travelled by train again, vowing to let the railways die by starving them of cash. A Transport minister will learn more by enduring the hardships that the hoi polloi endure than being told about them.
Written in retrospect, but formed in my head as I travelled
Arriving at Kings Cross, people are forming long queues on the platform (as well as the Concourse) to board an already full train. I wandered aimlessly round Kings Cross trying to find the entrance to the underground. Where is it? Oh, it's where there is a seething mass of humanity.
Walk down the passage. Think 'You stupid stupid man, don't push people and tell them to get a move on - we're all trying to move. It's quite crowded.' Is that a queue for tickets or a shuffle to the ticket barriers? Dare I make a darting run? Oh, look the barriers are open, it's a free for all. De dum de dum de dum. It's going to be hot on the Tube.
"Beep Beep Beep Beep. All passengers please evacuate the station due to a reported emergency." Alison from Lambeth Education says hello. I check I heard the announcement right. She says she's not staying in the station in an emergency. We lose each other in the crowd. Overhear man say to women, "Always get out immediately. You don't want to be last out." My heart is racing. I'm old enough to be frightened by the thought of an emergency at Kings Cross
The announcement is now saying that London Underground is closed due to over-crowding. Do they really mean the whole of London Underground or just this station? Is the Minister still around to hear and see this? Is it right for them to say it's an Emergency when it's *just* over-crowding? If they do that too often will we just shrug and ignore it? But if they say it's overcrowding, we'll just shrug and ignore it.
I'll go for a bus. No, I won't, that will probably take an hour and a half to crawl through the City and to Camberwell before heading up to Brixton. Thameslink to Tulse Hill, or Streatham. And cab. Sod it, cab home from here. Help - that queue is enormous and not moving. Now they're telling us to walk to Euston and Euston Square. In which direction? Surely they'll be just as crowded.
I'll just get a bus to somewhere, anywhere - Victoria, London Bridge, Waterloo....Not with bus queues that long. Maybe I'll just follow the crowd in the long procession - like a demonstration? - maybe they're going to Euston. Jeez, the road outside Kings Cross is a building site. A building site with lots of holes, filled with dirty rain water.
Look, you stupid teenage boy, yes that woman did say ouch when she walked into your bag. Perhaps it hurt. It's not funny. It's crowded here. The pavement is narrow is and puddled. Actually, if I cross Euston Road that will be better. The pavement is wider and not as crowded. Maybe I can pick up a bus heading to *South Central*. "Yes, you stupid man, I did just walk across the pavement in front of you. I'M HEADING FOR THE PEDESTRIAN CROSSING. TOSSER!" If only I had said it, not merely thought it.
My bag is heavy with audit papers and my back aches. Ooh, look it's Euston. I'd better cross the road again. That is one enormous puddle on the road by the pedestrian crossing. I'll join those two men standing well back from the kerb. That third man should have joined in. That van's just soaked him. Green man. Hitch up trousers, wade through puddle. It's still a bit of a walk to Euston Station. Someone's begging on the walkway. "Spare some change?" Under my breath I mutter "F*ck off", hating myself for it and knowing that I used to have compassion. I fear the next time I will say it out loud.
Into Euston station. As I pass briefly through the mainline station I hear the Holyhead train being announced, followed by "Please note that there is very limited standard accommodation on this train." The ticket hall at Euston is very congested. Head down head down, walk briskly. At least the barriers are locked open. De dum de dum de dum de dum.
Train in platform! Quick walk, find carriage with space. Why is that drunk walking zigzagged on the platform impeding my passage? "Move out of the bloody way!" There, I've said it. Out loud. Everyone heard me. I am going to get this train. I break the golden rule. I use my shoulder to stop the door from closing. People glare at me. Sod them. I'm 34 years old and I've never done it before.
I don't get a seat. I'm going to stand and lean. Oh no, some bloke's singing. Reach Oxford Circus. Is she glaring at me, because I'm not moving down the train? Sod sod sod. I've got my leaning place and I'm staying here 'til I get a seat at Victoria. Woo, Brixton! Five to seven! Brace yourself. Bet there's crowds at the bus-stop spilling onto the road, waiting in frustrated anger for a bus. Good heavens, barely a soul. Ooh, here comes a bus. Nearly empty! I'm sitting downstairs, the luxury of one seat for me and one for my bags.
Why is this bus sitting at this bus stop for so long? Oh heck, it's not sitting at the bus stop, it's in a queue of traffic. A queue of traffic that isn't moving. Moves slowly. Picks up speed to a snail's pace. Oh great, someone's dug up Brixton Hill. One line of traffic, bus lanes with big trenches in them. Finally, my stop. Off the bus. That's a very big gang of menacing-looking youths. Quick, get across the road, now, don't walk to the crossing. Sh*t, I missed that gap in the traffic. There's a lot of them! I'm trembling. Bang! I jump as a loud firework gets thrown in the road. Phew! Green Man. Short Walk up the road. Home. Half past seven. It's only taken six hours.
