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I was sitting on Vagnharad station this morning at 08:30, little knowing how hectic my journey to London was going to be. My plane was due to leave at 11:05 but the earliest train was the 8:36. Given the trip into Stockholm then the 18 minute run on the Arlanda Express, I was going to be cutting it quite close. Still, these things have to be tried.
Oddly, I wasn’t the only man with a wheelie bag, saying goodbye to my partner at Vagnharad. There were three others as well as me. Mirinda reckons it was because midsommar was yesterday and the good times had finished for this year. Could be; the other fellows didn’t look that happy but maybe they weren’t off to visit with drunken Weasels.
Anyway, the trip into Stockholm was nice and quiet, though the panic very slowly starting to rise in the pit of my stomach needed a fair bit of quietening. As it arrived, I leapt off the train and raced to the Arlanda Express platform and jumped onto the train waiting there. No, I didn’t.
I walked as fast as I could only to find that the Arlanda Express platform is undergoing some sort of renovation. This meant walking around and across. As I rounded the final corner there was a train waiting with the indicator board saying it was going to leave in two minutes. And the next one wasn’t leaving for 19 minutes.
I went straight for the ticket machine (stupid Gaz didn’t pre-book) and started pressing frantically. A very helpful train person helped me and was soon ushering me onto the train just before the doors closed and the train left the station.
I collapsed into a chair reserved for hopeless walkers like me and puffed for a bit as we headed for terminal five. I thought I was going to make it, given my extraordinary good luck. However, this positivity didn’t last that long.
Upon arrival at the airport, I immediately headed for the staffed desks to leave my bag. The queue was very long and wasn’t moving. Ahead of me were about 40 people with loads of baggage, strollers, surf boards, washing machines, elephants, etc. I decided I would have to forego my usual pleasant chat with a service desk person and, instead, made my way to the self check-in and bag drop.
It took three machines before I found one that actually worked. It’s one thing to replace humans with machines; it’s quite another to make the service less than ideal. Stupid carbon rod!
Eventually I shoved my bag onto the conveyor belt and headed for security. I was a bit worried as I approached the big sign that tells people how long they’ll have to wait to get through security. As I got close enough to read the tiny numbers, I smiled. One minute, it said. And it was right. I sailed through. And, can I just say, the woman on security who leant me an airport walking stick to go through the metal archway was extremely pleasant. We even shared a little laugh about the quality of the stick
I then had to head for the gate and, of course, it was the one furthest away. There was no time for a coffee, although I really wanted one. No, I had to keep going because there was another hurdle to clear before I could actually get to the gate. Passport control.
Because I was leaving the Shengen, I had to go through passport control. I chose the shortest long queue and, once more, waited. Obviously, the longest queues were all non-EU passport holders and, not for the first time, I wished I was a Swedish citizen.
The lady behind the screen was very pleasant and was just about to stamp my passport when I stopped her by desperately saying ‘No, no, no, no!” and tapping my residency card. She apologised and said she’d been distracted. She let me through.
I was on the final stretch and I could see the finish line in front of me. But I needed water. There was a handy Pressbyrån on the way that appeared to be almost empty. I grabbed a bottle, paid for it and was back out in a matter of seconds.
I reached the gate and joined the queue that was slowly heading for the plane. As I settled into my seat, I finally let out a sigh of utter and complete relief. I’d made it. I’m fairly certain I will never do that again. I need my buffers. This was way too close. It only needed one thing to go wrong and…well, it didn’t, so all was good.
I watched the film The Divided Heart on the plane. It’s an old black and white picture made in 1954, about an orphan and his adoptive family. The action takes place nine years after the Second World War and, once more, the Nazis did something unconscionable.
It’s an incredibly sad film. In the end, there’s a tough decision which I think was wrong.
The flight and my trip to the B&B was, while crowded, hot and stuffy and surrounded by incompetence, was okay. One bright moment was on the train from Gatwick to Clapham Junction.
I was standing in a corner next to a woman who was having work problems. She was texting people left right and centre. She then rang her daughter to tell her that she had forgotten to collect her belt after going through security in Seville. She had, since then, been continuously hitching up her jeans. I can vouch for that.
She was not having a good day so, when the train pulled into Clapham Junction and we were on the side next to the platform, I told her that her luck was changing and that it is always a good day when the doors open on your side. She smiled, agreed and hitched her jeans up.
All public transport aside, I managed to reach my student accommodation at 14:45. I was turned away with very short shrift. The reception did not open until 3pm on the dot. I was offered a seat in reception, which was very nice of them, but I told them I’d sit in the park. Which I did.
Eventually, I checked in and found my room. I was booked into student accommodation, which is not used for students from June to September. I’m not sure I’d like it as a student but for a traveller, it was adequate. It was also directly opposite Tate Modern, which was why I chose it.
Last time I was in London, I noticed that there was going to be an Expressionists’ exhibition at Tate Modern and, when John suggested the Weasels go to the British Museum, and the dates coincided, I leapt at the chance.
And I did. But I’ve decided to make today a two post day, so you’ll have to read about it in the next instalment. That feels very Dickensian.
