Day One
Today I have a train to Dublin and then a flight to Edinburgh. Now, as you are aware, I have a tendency to get to places early. This is probably due to some unrecognised childhood trauma involving a clock and a teddy bear. I’ve left myself plenty of time and I should get to Dublin Airport about 6 hours before my flight. Even I have to admit that I may have over-compensated on this one.
Now, someone at this point may wish to ask why I didn’t fly from Cork to Dublin. Clearly there are a wide variety of answers to explain this, including my desire to remain grounded and really feel the country by travelling across it by train. The truth is that it didn’t occur to me.
My taxi to the train station is booked for 07:45, so naturally I’m stood outside with my luggage at 07:30. I’ve received a text from a friend pointing out to me the chaos that happened at Edinburgh yesterday as the e-gates went down. I’ve also finally received my e-boarding pass and, despite a previous long-winded phone call to Aer Lingus, I have no cabin bag. I was thinking of putting my bag in the hold anyway, but as I spent a considerable amount of time sorting this out, this has really irked me. (Though it has given me the opportunity to use “irked”, which rarely comes along).
My taxi driver is on time and remarkably perky for the time of day. He is ecstatically happy when he finds out that I do not like football. We have a largely incoherent conversation about the current state of Irish rugby. (Incoherent because he has a very thick Irish accent and I know nothing about Irish rugby.) He seems happy enough, especially after I tell him that I enjoyed my trip to Cork and want to come back. He’s also very happy with the tip.
The train isn’t due until 08:25, and although there are loads of people here, the coffee shop isn’t open yet. They won’t let us onto the train, despite the fact that it is quite happily sat there. I sit down and rather nervously look at the suitcase that someone has abandoned nearby. I’m just about to report it when a woman comes back and sits by it. She’s either an opportunistic thief or has a remarkably casual attitude to her belongings.
It’s going to be quite a long day. The train gets into Dublin at 11:00 and I reckon I’ll be at Dublin Airport by mid-day…. Plenty of time for a flight that leaves at 18:00. I do consider doing some more sightseeing in Dublin, but don’t fancy dragging my luggage around with me. I sense a lot of reading ahead. As well as the Mysteries of Udolpho (still not very mysterious), I have the Berlitz Guide to Edinburgh to browse through.
The relative quiet of the station is shattered when about 30 people turn up. Judging by the way that they’re all wearing the same kind of shirt, they seem to be some form of team. They could be fans, but seeing as they all seem to be around the same age and level of fitness, I’m going for “team”. Whatever they are, they’re bloody loud and I hope they’re on a different train – or at least in a different carriage. They are then joined by a far more varied group of people dressed in a similar way – these definitely look like fans rather than players.
They let us on board at 08:00. Judging by the names on the little electronic signs, the train is going to be packed. But it is nice to know who I’m going to be sat by! I’m on the aisle seat and as the person beside me shares a surname with those on the other side of the aisle, so I suspect I’m going to be sat in the middle of a family.
Just ahead of me there is a group sat at a table. The lady directly in front of me is moaning already and I suspect FAFT – although the names are French so they may be Canadian. If so, she is challenging the stereotype about Canadians being polite. The fans are on board with us as well – and this looks as though it may become an uncomfortable journey. Behind me are two tables of them, so I just hope they haven’t started drinking. They are loud and largely incomprehensible. I’ve overheard someone saying that the train will empty out at Limerick – so here’s hoping.
I decide to try and put the little tray table down and find that it is huge- so much so that it pokes into my stomach. It’s not help by the Moaning Lady who moves around so much that it makes it even worse. (In my defence, I’m not the only person having similar problems – it would seem they have bought tray tables for seats with much larger space between them.) It looks like I’ll have to just balance everything on my lap – assuming Luke (apparently my travelling companion) turns up. He hasn’t arrived by time the train pulls out, although someone is sat in the his families’ other seats. I decide not to sprawl …. yet! At that point the person across the aisle notices that the seats are reserved so moves off to search for another seat. I wait for 5 minutes and then SPRAWL. Both these seats are now mine … although I’ll move if Luke actually turns up.
Lots more people get on at the next stop and there is an announcement that if you haven’t booked a seat, it is standing room only. It’s ironic as there are several seats empty around me (including a whole empty table), but people are suitable cowed by the announcement and no-one even approaches to sit down. There is a huge argument at the other end of the carriage where someone is in someone else’s seat and is refusing to move. Two ticket collectors get involved and the resultant shouting keeps us entertained for quite some time. Eventually it is sorted out and we now have people stood at both ends of the carriage … despite the fact that there are several empty seats.
More fans come on at the next station and this time four of them bravely sit at the tables in front of me. Sensibly they say that they will move if they have to and listening to their conversation, I can finally confirm that they are on their way to a hurling match. Which does not have the connotations that it has elsewhere. Although it is more violent and probably just as messy.
As predicted, the hurling fans all get off at Limerick Junction and I doze happily, ably assisted by the Mysteries of Udolpho (which is still not mysterious).
The refreshments trolley arrives just before we get to Dublin, leaving me to struggle off the train with a scalding hot cup of coffee. As a result I do something that I would not normally do, and abandon it on the train. Outside I know where to go – when I was here last week I saw the 782 bus to Dublin Airport. In fact, I saw three of them and on each occasion they picked up a handful of people. Not so today – there are about 40 of us waiting. The long suffering driver squeezes us in – and then has to make three other stops. Or he is meant to – at two of them, he doesn’t allow anyone onto the bus but he does at the third. I can’t work out his rationale, but if I’d been waiting at one of those stops, I would be seething.
However, I’m safely on board so I get to Dublin Airport as predicted with a mere 6 hours to wait. I need to sort out my luggage though, so that should take up a few minutes. So, to clarify the situation: when I booked, I noticed that there was no option for cabin luggage on the flight. Which seemed strange, as there had been on my flight from Heathrow. When I spoke to the nice (but equally confused) lady at Aer Lingus about this (and to book extra legroom), she wasn’t sure but thought it meant that it was included. I accepted this – but remained deeply suspicious. More so since the boarding pass arrived and said nothing about a cabin bag.
I seek help from an Aer Lingus lady at the airport. I should point out that this is a seething hall of people, which is incredibly loud and there seems to be no organisation or idea where people should go. As I’m explaining my problem, we are interrupted by a second Aer Lingus lady who knows everything, gabbles at me and tells me to “go over there”. She points in the direction of a seething mass of humanity and then disappears. The signage is less than helpful, so rather than plunging into the mob I seek the help of a third Aer Lingus lady (and, no, they don’t seem to employ men!). She manages to explain what’s going on. It transpires than my flight is an Emerald Flight. This means that a cabin bag is included – but with a maximum of 7k. I already know mine is heavier than that, but we weigh it anyway and it comes in at an unsurprising 11k. I’m happy to pay the excess, but she will have none of it and puts me through as “an exception”. Bizarrely, it then goes off for scanning and disappears – because it turns out that on an Emerald Flight, “cabin bag” means “it goes into the hold”.
Security provides me with the usual round of entertainment. We get to watch an Asian lady resplendent in a pink Sari as she is firstly stopped, then taken to one side and then kept there as the Gardai are summoned to take her away. Then I have the normal excitement with trying to get my boots off to go through the scanners. As I’m putting everything away again, I enjoy watching an American family who have all fallen foul of the 100ml limit on fluids. Which does make me wonder how the heck they have got here without coming across this before? While they complain about this being the end of Democracy as we know it, I re-lace my boots and head on.
I settle down for a healthy meal (Diet Coke and an Irish Mac N Cheese). Healthy-ish.
The gate is announced with 2 ½ hours to go and I head down to grab a seat. I’m a little concerned as the previous flight to Edinburgh is delayed by an hour – which means it now leaves 5 minutes before my own flight. The chances of mine being delayed as well are therefore high. It also gives a high chance of a departure gate packed with pissed off people. The first have already arrived – a delightfully noisy American family who have decided that it’s a really good idea to travel with toddlers. FAFT. Because I suspect I might be late, I email the hotel to warn them – they respond almost immediately and tell me that it won’t be an issue.
This family continues to be annoying and I have decided to offer all the alcohol in Ireland to anyone who will get rid of this fucking family. And “get rid of” is to be interpreted liberally. Oh, and I still don’t know where my luggage is.
We are now joined by an Italian family. They are apparently all hard of hearing as they up the ante by screeching at each other as though they are trying to communicate across a busy street. I’m hoping that they all go down with laryngitis, but the outlook is not looking rosy. Next is a group of extremely drunk Scotsmen. Luckily, they are on the delayed flight, so I don’t have to put up with them for very long.
Eventually we board – and I lever myself onto the smallest fucking airplane in the world! The seats are exquisitely narrow, so the person beside me is in for a really awful flight and I still don’t know where my luggage is! The only way in and out of the plane is at the back – as I’m in Row 1, I’m going to be the last one off. I hate this flight already.
The only good things is that if the pilot needs anything, I will be able to lean forwards and hand it to him. Unless it’s my luggage, because fuck knows where that is!
Oh, I should point out that I am in seat 1F – which implies that there are 6 seats in each row. Not so – there are only four. The cabin attendant comes up to confirm that I’m happy to operate the emergency door in case of an emergency. There is a huge temptation to refuse, but I don’t. Mainly because he is so young that it looks as though this is something that his Dad has convinced him to do. Maybe Dad is the pilot? I resist the temptation to ask. He then gives me the worlds shortest briefing which includes the line “only open the door if conditions outside are safe, If not, don’t.” Well isn’t that just as clear as crystal?
Two American join us on Row 1 and immediately start complaining about the heat. After they have been told that everything needs to be stowed away, one asks “Can I just have this here at my feet then?” The attendant gives them a look which clearly says “Yes, because that’s the exact opposite of what I just told you” and patiently repeats what he said about 29 picoseconds ago. Luckily the seat beside me remains unoccupied, so I can spread out as much as the seatbelt allows.
The pilot starts the engines 25 minutes after we should have taken off and shortly after I have handed him his copy of “The Idiots Guide to Flight”. The Mouse Machine (which is apparently something called a Meteor 72) takes a considerable amount of time to lurch into motion. Are they actually going to try and take off – yes, but first we’ll drive around for 25 minutes before deciding to defy gravity and head for the Irish Sea.
Despite my misgivings (which seem to be shared by the attendant judging by the way he clings onto his chair), we arrive in Edinburgh and I finally find out where my luggage is. It is (as suspected) in the hold, so now I have to wait around for it to arrive – which is exactly what I wanted to avoid. But, as a bonus, we do get to watch the baggage handlers carefully and delicately bouncing someone’s case off the runway from a great height.
I can tell I’m back in the UK when I get on the bus to the town centre – £5.50!! I don’t want to buy the bloody bus! Despite a bravura performance from the sort of child that can only be described as a “right little madam”, the bus trip goes off without a hitch and I arrive – directly opposite the castle. Wow. Impressive – but I’m sure I’ve seen it somewhere before. It bugs me, but I’ll work it out.
I eventually get to the Frederick House Hotel at 21:15. I’m bushed. The receptionist suggests I get some food delivered and I do – 30 minutes later a German Doner Kebab box arrives. It’s been a bit of day! Tomorrow: Edinburgh!
Day Two
The room is nice – not Belvedere nice – and faces a backyard. But there’s a constant noise which is quite difficult to describer. It’s a sort of mmmmmmm gggrrrrr mmmMRmmmmmRmmmmR. OK, it’s like an extractor fan and it’s on ALL the time. It seems to be coming from just below my window – which means I have to keep it closed. And it is unseasonably warm. The noise is the sort of thing you can ignore – unless you’re trying to sleep. As a result, I do not sleep well.
In the morning, I go and have a chat with the receptionist and find the same lady is on duty. She assures me that she has actually been home and that there is more than one employee. I explain the problem and she offers to move me. All I have to do is pack my stuff and it will all be sorted while I am out. Excellent.
I head out for a wander and some breakfast before my Real Mary Close tour at 09:30. I ask someone cleaning windows where I can get breakfast. “At this time of day” all he can think of is Greggs. Not a chance – I end up in a Costa instead.
After breakfast I have a good wander. There are a lot of statues here – all of eminent people looking very serious….
until I find this
…. and then this.
I spot my first kilt – an American being photographed on some steps with a woman in traditional Scottish attire. I reckon they are only one step away from having a Game Of Thrones wedding and move on.
The Age-Appropriate Hoody is deployed for the first time this holiday as I go into the Real Mary Close Tour. And then gets put away very quickly as it turns out that it’s quite warm inside.
Initially it seems that everyone else on the tour is FAFT. There are a couple with two kids – who are impressively well behaved. (The kids, I mean, not the parents. Though they are a credit to their children.) The obligatory dickhead tourists on the tour are two Chinese women who spend the entire tour standing in front of everything and trying to barge other people out of the way. This has limited success with me and I block them several times to give the kids a better view. Somewhere on the internet is their blog where they describe me as “the obligatory dickhead tourist”.
It’s a really good tour and very informative. Our guide is very good except she is American which ruins the illusion of her being an inhabitant of the Close. Apart from that, it is grisly enough to keep everyone happy and I exit very happy that I took my friends advice to do this.
Outside, just over an hour has made the street packed. There are vast tour groups wandering around, only looking where they are told to look and all taking the same pictures. I have a wander around the streets to the south of the castle where my research has uncovered a second hand bookshop called Armchair Books. On the way, I shudder at the vast numbers of purveyors of tat that exist solely to fleece the tourists. These include:
- I heart Scotland (which no Scot has ever shopped in)
- The Scottish experience (ditto)
- The Real Scotland (ditto)
- Tartan shops all featuring the Diana Memorial Tartan (ditto)
- Kilt shops (ditto)
Even the amusingly named Thistle Do Nicely turns out to be a chain and somewhere that no Scot would ever shop in. It’s also obvious that everything is at a vastly inflated price.
Heading towards the less frequented streets, I find Armchair Books. This is a fantastic bookshop and I leave £60 lighter and 15 books heavier J I have a quick chat with the proprietor about the stupidity of the 1001 books challenge, though he’s impressed at how many I‘ve read.
I walk down through Cowgate, towards Holyrood and eventually cut back up towards the Royal Mile. I look at a couple of places to eat, but can’t find anywhere that has anything even vaguely Scottish on the menu. In the end, I give up and go into Brewdog where I settle down with a dram of Auchtenishan and a glass of Left Field (which I am assured is Scottish). The spicy chicken wings probably aren’t, so I’ll have to go in search of more Celtic Fare later.
The chicken wings are evil, delicious and ridiculously messy. The waiter convinced me to have another pint, so I move onto the Sunday best. There is a temptation to stay here all day. I force myself to leave and trudge back to the hotel so that I can offload the books.
On the way I find a Mowgli restaurant. This is owned by one of the judges on the Great British menu and I’m intrigued by the food. I earmark this for later.
When I get back, I have been moved to a room with a worse view, but no annoying background noise. Despite her assurances, the same woman is on duty and I’m even more convinced that no-one else works here.
I head out for another wander around in the heat and sunshine. I eventually end up at Mowgli. The waitress tries to explain how the concept is one of sharing – which is tricky as I’m on my own. While she tries to recover from her confusion, I go for the Gunpowder Chicken, the Bunny Chow and a non-alcoholic mango cocktail. The waitress recommended this after I asked for something long and refreshing and then look quite worried when I said that if I didn’t like it, it was her fault. I’m starting to think that too many people cannot work out when I’m joking. Maybe I need a flag. Or a sign.
The food is really good – although the Gunpowder Chicken wasn’t as spicy as I expected. To the relief of the waitress, the cocktail is lovely. The Bunny Chow defeats me, but I still have room for dessert and I order Galub Jamun and a cup of coffee. The dessert is delicious, but by the time I leave, I’m feeling decidedly overfull. I slowly wend my way back to the hotel for an evening of digestion.
Day Three
I have my Edinburgh Castle tour booked today. It’s not until 12:30, so I decide to have a leisurely start. Which means I’m still out of the hotel by 08:30 and I’m off to Costa again for a sausage bap and a cappuccino.
Yesterday I headed off to the south and east, so today I’m decided to explore the park at the foot of the Schloss Adler (yes, that’s what it reminded me of!) and see if I can work out what the elephant statue is all about. I’m then going to wander towards the new town and Dean Village.
It’s a great park to wander around with a great fountain and some superb views of the Schloss Adler – though I’m disappointed that I can’t seem to see a cable car with Richard Burton on top of it.
As I head off to the west, there is a steady stream of tourists walking in the opposite direction. Every time I stop to take a picture, at least one of them stops as well to see what I’m looking at. It seems that they don’t take a photo without someone else letting them know that they should take one. I resist the temptation to photograph some poo and head on. I should point out that the weather has remained sunny and hot.
Dean Village is a lovely little place and looks just like a rural village that has been slowly overtaken by the city. I think it will remain lovely until they finish the massive development next door which means that the entire village will be overlooked. Just on from there is Dean Bridge which gives great views in both directions.
As I cross Dean Bridge, I pass a group of what my generation refers to as “bloody millennials” walking in the other direction. I don’t overhear much, but what I do get is a nasal American whine as she says: “Your hotel is SO unfair and don’t make me welcome when I visit. I mean, I was only planning to stay overnight.” Presumably without paying the hotel. FAFT.
I make a quick trip back to the hotel for personal relief and sunscreen (unusually necessary for Scotland!) and then I head up to the meeting point. As it’s just outside a Café Nero, I head in for an early lunch of ciabatta and cappuccino.
On the way I finally see a Scotsman in a kilt – at least, I assume he was Scottish as he was playing the bagpipes. I was going to video him, but I looked up at the ranked swarm of tourists doing the same thing and I moved on. At least the kilt is not now solely the purviews of American tourists.
I settle down for my lunch with The Tin Drum by Gunter Grass. I haven’t finished the Mysteries of Udolpho (which was yet to become mysterious) but that’s on my iPad and I prefer reading actual books. (The Tin Drum, by the way, goes from interesting and unusual, to being boring. Takes me ages to wade through it.)
I’d decided to book a tour of the Schloss Adler and I‘m glad that I did as there are so many people booked today that it is closed to people who just want to walk in. The tour is booked with Little Fish tours and our tour guide is Euan. We have an eclectic group – I am one of 3 people from the UK, there are a couple from the Faroes, a family from India and a small swarmette from the US.
Euan is an excellent guide and takes us through the castle, going through the history and providing his own particular spin on the history. Particular highlights are:
- England phoning James VI (I in England) when Elizabeth died;
- Referring to Tony Blair as a war criminal;
- The story about the tourist who got stuck in Mons Meg (the large cannon);
- How the one o’clock cannon saved Edinburgh in WWII.
The tour is well timed, so that we are in the right place for the one o’clock cannon. Which goes bang. This apparently requires the presence of every single American tourist in Scotland. I don’t bother to take a picture as all I can see is a sea of people holding phones in the air.
The tour finishes outside the Honours of Scotland and Euan does confirm that Charles was crowned on the Stone of Destiny – in fact it was only shipped back to Scotland last week. We’re lucky to be able to see it as it’s due to be moved to Perth next month. (If you haven’t seen it, you haven’t missed much – it’s just a stone. It is the least impressive of the Honours.)
There is a queue to get in and see the Honours, so I have the joy of standing in front of a delightful American tourist. “What really gets me is the spelling. I mean I instead of y, and sometimes an extra e. I just don’t get it.” Poor thing. She also got very upset when she was not allowed to take a selfie in front of the Honours. FAFT!
The view from up here is superb – not surprising really. I have a wander around and slowly make my way down, pausing only to buy a bookmark and some obligatory shortbread for people back down south.
There is more I could see, but it’s very hot – allegedly only 19 degrees, but feels hotter – so I head back to the hotel. On the way I stop at a shop called the Whiski Bar and contemplate spending a ridiculous amount of money on a bottle of single malt. Good sense prevails. I also consider buying some haggis. But seeing as I have a 6 hour journey home tomorrow, it’s probably not a good plan.
I have a relax and sort through my photos, before heading off to the Miller & Carter Steakhouse for dinner. I must be in a good mood as when I order cider and the waiter says “that one has apples in it”, I manage to refrain from saying “Yes, I know, BECAUSE IT’S CIDER!!!!!”
It’s a good meal:
Starter: scallops with pea puree, samphire, chorizo and something brown that tasted a lot better than it looked;
Main: sirloin steak with onion loaf, chips, peppercorn sauce and lettuce with a garlic & cheese sauce (John Torode would not like the mixture of hot and cold and I have to agree: it would be much better if the lettuce had been torched);
Dessert: Vanilla Cheesecake.
Review: Yum!
It was a suitably expensive meal for my last night, and feeling very full, I stagger back to the hotel.
Last Day – homeward bound
Suitably, this the first overcast day since I’ve been here – it’s almost as though Scotland is sad I’m leaving. (Or it could just be weather – who can say?) My train is booked for 09:30 but a few days ago I was informed that the train was cancelled due to strike action. Luckily, there is another one at 10:30 and I was able to move my reservation across. The train now shows as being full – so this is likely to be an uncomfortable journey.
I manage to stay in bed until 08:30 – quite a feat for me, then quickly pack. This is trickier than previously as I now have a tote bag full of books as well as the shortbread. After some cunning re-shuffling, I get most of the shortbread in the tote bag. Suitably encumbered, I head for Waverley station.
It’s a sad little trip – going home always is – but it’s made worse when carrying the two bags starts to make my back hurt. So I decide to try and use the fiendish suitcase wheels again. This is mostly successful and I manage not to mow anyone down (thus proving that it’s not all the fault of the suitcases!). Waverley Station then decides to interrupt my progress by putting some very inconvenient stairs in place at several key points. I manage this, and then have to negotiate the ticket machine.
Unlike the straightforward Irish ticket machine, this one requires the card that I booked the ticket with, and:
- Inputting the 16 digit code that was sent to me on a sponge three weeks ago;
- Singing the first 10 bars of Flower of Scotland;
- Performing the first 18 steps of a Highland Fling;
- Promising to vote for independence should there be another referendum;
- Promising not to mention the fraudulent behaviour of senior members of the SNP.
I keep my fingers crossed for the last one, my ticket is spat out and I settle down to my breakfast of a can of Diet Pepsi. There’s about an hour to go – so that’s fairly standard!
Fifteen minutes later, the platform is announced and I head around there to find that lots of people have had exactly the same idea. By the time the train arrives at 10:00, the platform is crowded. And, naturally, most people have significant amounts of luggage. Very quickly, they let us on. I’ve worked out that I’m right in the middle of the carriage, so I ignore the luggage racks and put all of my stuff on the overhead shelf where it looms over me in much the same way that the Schloss Adler looms over Edinburgh.
Apart from that, I’m at a table and facing the right way. The seat beside me is booked up to Durham, so I might be able to stretch out a bit after then. In order to help, an announcement is made. Except they try to include too much information, which most people then ignore. In essence, the train is fully reserved all the way to London and as a result people should stick to their reserved seats. Despite that, there is a clump of people at the end of the carriage behind me, looking confused. It also hasn’t prevented two women sitting down on the table across the aisle and then looking quite miffed when they are asked to move by the people who have actually reserved the seats. Given their age, they probably don’t listen to anything unless it’s been told them by some dickhead on TikTok.
A lady has sat opposite me and, like me, has a book. While she may be ready to poor scorn on The Tin Drum, I think it’s got to be better than her book: “Bodyfulness”. This is apparently about “somatic practices for presence, empowerment and waking up in this life.” It takes a lot, but that manages to make The Tin Drum feel as though it is not utter drivel. (Don’t get me wrong, I think The Tin Drum is largely drivel – but not completely drivel.)
Sat behind her are two Scottish girls who are trying to get to Manchester for a Coldplay concert. They are getting quite worried about whether they will manage to get there and the woman with the awful book proves to be remarkably nice as she tried to help them plan their journey.
There are still people stood as the train pulls away and no one has claimed the seat beside me. I decide to confuse the matter further by heading for the toilet. And then change my mind. Both ends of the carriage are absolutely rammed with people, and there is no way I’ll be able to get through. I decide to take my seat again and cope …. Hopefully.
The main issue here seems to be that some of us paid the obscene amount of £1 to reserve our seats – and those reservations have been transferred. All the people wandering aimlessly up and down are people who didn’t reserve a seat and are thinking “oh, I’ll just sit there – perhaps no-one will come along”. Silly, silly, silly. The really silly thing is, now that we’ve left, they should be taking the risk – but lots of them aren’t. Silly, silly, silly. I’m reaping the benefits of it though as there is still no-one sat by me.
Everything continues in this way until we get to Newcastle. Then even more people get on, and they are now standing all the way down the aisle – making my chances of getting to the toilet now close to zero. I’m hoping that willpower will prevail.
Across the aisle a young(ish) couple have taken seats – and the people who have booked them turn up. The two incumbents claim that they were told that “lots of people would be in the same situation and no seat reservations were being honoured”. Sounds like the sort of excuse I hear all the time at work. The people with the reservations are having none of it though, and one of them plays the disability card (“I’m disabled and I can’t stand for hours”). The interlopers refuse to move, so the disabled lady says she’ll wait for a guard. There is clearly no chance of a guard getting anywhere near here.
The situation is at a stalemate until the two Coldplay fans get involved. They have a right go at them, until they are guilted into moving. The lady with the awful book moves beside me so that they can sit together. This new status quo lasts until Durham when the people who should be sat opposite me turn up. This time they give way without a fight – the Coldplay fans have clearly got them worried. The lady beside me has gone (and thankfully takes her book with her), so one sits beside me while the other stands.
The lady who is now sat beside me has been quaffing from a plastic glass of something pink and presumably alcoholic since she got on the train. Her friend (partner? close personal acquaintance?) is equally well kitted out for the journey and has been swigging from a bottle of beer. When the lady puts her handbag down, it makes a very obvious clink. I nearly ask for an empty bottle to pee into.
They have now got over the embarrassment of being caught out. They have a spirited conversation which starts with how they are going to demand compensation. It moves on to how unfair it was that he had to have his hair cut short when he was in the army. It finishes with her saying that she wants a little girl so that she can “go out with her”. I can’t imagine anything worse. We also get a good ten minutes of “I really, really support the strikers, but..”. That old familiar refrain of “I support you as long as you don’t do inconvenience me or expect me to do anything.”
At York there is a huge exodus (including the two interlopers). Mercifully, few people get on and I manage to get to the loo. By the time I finish peeing, we’re somewhere near Leicester. I follow it up with a trip to the buffet car as I haven’t eaten yet today. I go for a ham and cheese ciabatta – which is the only soft ciabatta I have ever eaten. It fills a gap, and sustains me for the rest of my journey home.
And that is it for another year. The last two entries are extremely late because I had considered not writing them up. However, I just couldn’t disappoint my faithful readers. This years holiday approaches – I’m heading up to do the North Coast 500 so look forward to lots of stories about driving as I’ll be going around it by car.
Artificial Constructs 