I've not been back at work long. But...
It off with little things - the man selling me an Oyster card insisted on explaining what he was doing, even though I couldn't hear a word, and I just wanted him to do what he had to do without giving me a ball-by-ball commentary with the microphone turned off...
Going into NatWest and asking whether as a NatWest customer I can pay a NatWest cheque into an HSBC account without charge - the answer is no, but I wondered what was the point of having a young man stationed on the door if all he did was lead to me a cashier who said 'five pound charge'. And what was the point of the young woman who said, as I was leaving "Thank you for choosing to bank with NatWest"? I mean they were nice and friendly and cheerful and lightened my step. But why...?
Walking round and round Dixons looking for binoculars and then realising I didn't have a clue about the difference between a £14 pair and £200 pair. Queueing for ages at HSBC. (And they had no friendly meeters/greeters on their door - I'm so happy I bank with NatWest)
They've rearranged M&S Simply Food so it took ages to find puddings. I emerged and realised that my train was on the verge of leaving. I dashed into WH Smith and bought three magazines. (Two with CDs). Classic FM's cover describes Bryn Terfel as the World's Greatest Opera singer. Well, I like Bryn as much as the next person, but... I also bought a Lonely Planet Guide for the purpose of holiday-planning.
They were giving out free magazines - a quick glance suggested they were fluffy celeb lifestyle magazines. One woman said "Well, if they're absolutely free, I might as well." I pondered and pondered, and decided that there is a catch. If you have it, you feel obliged to flick through it. Is that the best use of my time? (Says the woman who spends way too much blogging and on Usenet...!)
I got the 1622 train. Three small girls got on at Battersea Park. I think they were with their Nanny - or at least, someone who didn't understand the driver's announcement.
Oh, I'm pre-empting there.
The train sat at Battersea Park for an age. One of the little girls announced it had broken down. 'Sweet,' I thought 'but she doesn't know what she's talking about...'. And indeed, the train chugged-chugged into movement. Halfway to Clapham Junction the driver announced that due to a mechanical fault it was terminating at Clapham Junction. He told us to mind the gap between the train and the platform edge.
That set someone off - in a loud voice "How dare they do to this to me? I want to go to West Norwood. Why isn't the train going to West Norwood? And don't tell me to mind the gap. Who do you think you are, telling me to mind the gap?" I remembered someone, an acquaintance, a guy from the local pubs. He fell down the gap between the train and the platform edge.
Dead.
Instantly.
Admittedly, it was a slam door train. And it was moving. And he was blind drunk. That's when they started making the announcements at Clapham Junction. And when we got there I had to stretch and jump. Okay, I have short legs. but many people have shorter - the three little girls and the raving teenager, for a start.
As I stood on the over-crowded platform, I chunnered and muttered to myself "typical British Rail" (I know, I know, I'm just an old-fashioned kinda gal). Then I thought: never in my entire life, in all the thousands - hundreds of thousands, surely - of miles I have travelled by train have I ever had to get off a train prematurely. Sometimes they've been cancelled - after I have boarded - sometimes they've been delayed. But never have I been foreshortened. Tube yes, bus yes, taxi yes, private car yes, bicycle yes, boat yes, but train - never ever.
The next train came along pretty much on time - within five minutes, and I even got a seat. Halfway to Wandsworth Common, we stopped, and the driver announced that there had been a robbery on the train in front, the police were in attendance, and we would not move until the train in front moved, which was down to the police.
I had visions of being there all night, but actually, in the end, only five minutes. And I was home at 1720.
In time for a dreary but valuable England 2-0 victory over Azerbaijan.
I have a genuine Azeri doll. She's 30 years old. My late cousin (and godfather) used to teach English in Baku. He couldn't work out why he was able to seduce so many beautiful women. It took him years to realise they were KGB agents.
