Going home

This morning we said goodbye to our wonderful little studio apartment and headed along Prince Street to the station.

We sat and waited for our platform to be announced then joined the general melee of families and wheelie bags trying to reach the single escalator. We then all changed tactic as we were confronted with stairs. Mirinda claimed there was a lift but I have learned from years of walking with a stick that elevators are actually meant for the lazy rather than the disabled. Obviously I took the stairs.

When we reached our first class carriage, there was a family there looking rather predatory. Apparently their carriage had been locked out of use and they were forced to fend for themselves. My first thought was that they had wandered down from the economy end of the train but, no, the carriage put out of commission was the second first class carriage, the one after ours.

All was fine and we took our window seats and settled down for the almost five hour journey by sea and fields and industrial heartland. At one point, the train announcer said that all reservations were cancelled and it was everyone for themselves in first class. The half of the family sitting next to us suddenly leapt up and headed off to join the other half.

When we reached Newcastle, there was a general noise of dissent and disbelief as more first class passengers boarded the train. They were told they could sit anywhere they could find a seat. Most were not happy. Things were even worse by the time we reached Darrington with people decided it was better to wait for the next train.

At York prospective passengers were actually told to wait for the next train which ‘shouldn’t be too long,’ a fairly non-decisive and possibly frightening amount of time given the state of trains in this country.

But, as I said, our seats were all fine and good and we eventually found ourselves decanting at Kings Cross (only 16 minutes late) where I lugged both wheelie bags into a taxi for the trip to Waterloo.

The double wheelie bag idea had been Mirinda’s given she was going to work then to the flat and we figured it would be easier for me to take them home. And it was. There were a few uneven bits of pavement and those nobbly Lego like blind people tiles but otherwise, I didn’t really have a problem.

The only ‘problem’ I sort of had was when I arrived at Farnham. I figured I’d get a taxi, something I detest given our appalling taxi drivers. However, this plan was doomed to failure. I didn’t have any cash and when I asked the three taxi drivers waiting at the station if they took cards they all shook their heads with the kind of non-caring attitude of someone who makes too much money. I checked the bus times and decided the eight minute wait was worth it.

Man handling the bags onto the bus was a bit of a pain but I managed and the rest of the trip home was uneventful. It all faded into obscurity when the girls met me at the door.

Sue had dropped them round before she left for Crete this morning. To say they were overjoyed would be an understatement.

As Mirinda said later (after reading my posts) her trip to Edinburgh was a lot different to mine. I have to say I did enjoy it and will miss, in particular, Rose Street.

It was an excellent spot, brilliant accommodation and some fabulous pubs. I’ll be back.

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1 Response to Going home

  1. Mirinda says:

    Stupid Farnham taxi drivers!!

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