From Track to Sky
I went to a wedding on Saturday. It was a very nice wedding, and everybody had fun, and we sang and we danced, and... ah. Yes. I forgot about that.
You know how weddings always have A Wrong Bit somewhere along the way? Traditionally people have drunken fights, but if there aren't any pugilists on hand there's bound to be some kind of Dreadful Incident or other. Like the time my grandmother had an aneurism the day after my uncle's wedding, or the old lady that died at an Irish wedding my inlaws went to recently.
Well, at least nobody died. And my family are a bunch of pacifist academic liberals, so a fight was never likely. But although they're not in the habit of throwing fists about, they do rather like to throw elbows, knees and any other body part that's throwable when they're drunk and there's a dancefloor. And that was all great, until a 78-yr-old woman got in the way of one of the aforementioned body parts and got herself whacked across the dancefloor and into a radiator, which she hit rather spectacularly with her head and then lay there, unconscious for a while.
Of course, as soon as she came round the band started playing again, but she wasn't well enough to move, and although most people were happy to overlook the body at the edge of the dance floor and keep boogying, a Sensible Aunt intervened.
And so, we sat. On the edges of Glasgow on a Saturday night, waiting for an ambulance that didn't come for over an hour... but lo, it arrived! At the same time as the pre-booked taxis to take everybody back to the not-very-near hotel.
Ah well, what the heck. We all trooped back to the hotel and drank whisky and hot chocolate until 4am, and my several million cousins and I got more drunk and nattered about nothing in particular, and I wholeheartedly recommend it as a way of spending time on a Saturday night.
What I do not recommend, wholeheartedly or otherwise, is that you follow it by only 3.5 hours' sleep and an 8.5-hour train journey back to Manchester.
It would have been only six hours, were I not so spectacularly transportmentally challenged. Did I tell you about the time I got on a train just because it said it was going to Manchester, even though I'd only just left Manchester and was in fact on my way to Staffordshire? Or the time I got off the bus at the wrong place? Or the time I had flat tyres? Or the time I ran out of fuel when there was a panther on the loose? Or the other time I ran out of fuel, or the other one or the other one...
I'm not too bad at getting myself onto or into various forms of transport. The problem is that once I'm there, I assume my job is done. Such minor trifles as holding onto bus tickets, checking fuel gauges, paying drivers or changing trains go right out of my head.
On Sunday I did really well. I ordered a taxi, I got in it, I got out of it, I paid the driver, I stood on the correct platform, I got on the right train, I got off it again at the right place, I even managed to find the correct train-replacement-bus AND got off it again, and all with an hour to spare. This, I think, was my downfall. "Ooh," I thought. "A whole hour." A more travel-savvy person would have thought something more like, "Ooh, a whole fifty minutes plus ten minutes for finding and getting on the next train," but not me.
I looked at my watch a couple of times as the hour of departure drew near and thought, "No no, not time yet" and continued to read my book and munch my sandwich.
I had brought sandwiches with me, but they'd been in my bag over 24 hours and smelt a little suspect. And tasted slightly wrong too. But there was a little shop immediately opposite my seat, so that was OK. I really couldn't be bothered gathering all my belongings together and risk losing my seat into the bargain, so I turned to the man next to me and said, "Look, I'm just leaving this black rucksack here while I go into the shop. It's not a bomb."
Amazingly, he believed me.
(it wasn't a bomb)
So anyway, with two minutes to spare I gathered all my stuff up, went in search of a display, arrived just in time to see my train disappearing from the display, puzzled over it for a minute or two, asked a man, who said, "It's down the other end! Turn right, then left! You've got ten seconds!"
So I ran, really fast, and I huffed, and I dodged the stupid standing-staring people, and it was all right. The train was still on the platform.
"NO!" said a voice.
I ignored it.
"STOP!" said the voice.
I ignored it again. Probably some nutter-lady.
"THE DOORS ARE LOCKED! NO!" said the voice, in a tone you'd use if you were looking after a naughty child who kept doing something they weren't supposed to do. Somebody else's child. And you were somebody who really hated kids.
I turned to see a frowny-looking lady in a uniform, wagging her finger and being all cross with me for wanting to get on her train.
"But it's right there!" I said. "And I need to get on it!"
The train wasn't going anywhere. It was just standing on the platform. The guard was ambling up to the driver's cab. I looked at him appealingly. He raised his eyes sympathetically, but "NO!" said Nasty Lady again, and I stood there and watched helplessly as the train failed to leave and the doors failed to open and Horrible Pouty Woman glared at me like I was some kind of train-entering vandal.
And finally the train left, and I started to cry, and had to go and hide in the toilets and sob a little, or at least I would have done if there wasn't a long queue of doddering toilet-visitors all failing to understand the basic concept of putting-20p-in-a-slot and me standing well-behavedly in line behind them with tears falling down my cheeks but finally losing patience and shouting at some poor woman who was struggling to understand the big green arrow pointing which way she should go, "GO!" I screamed at her. "Through there! Now!" and she did and I did and then I hid in a cubicle and cried and hoped she guessed I wasn't quite feeling myself.
But then I realised I was in the middle of Edinburgh and it was two hours until the next train so I went and had a look at Edinburgh and cor blimey stone me, but what a beautiful city it is. I climbed something called the Scott Monument all the way to the top, despite being slightly too fat for the final staircase, and squeeezed myself out the top with a little pop! and admired the amazing views. And the sun was sunning and I felt a little better.
When I got on the next train, Big Old Meany Woman was there again, with her clipboard. I gave her a Hard Stare.
And then spent another 3.5 hours on trains and it was pretty grim to be honest.
Still, Edinburgh's nice.
___
You know how weddings always have A Wrong Bit somewhere along the way? Traditionally people have drunken fights, but if there aren't any pugilists on hand there's bound to be some kind of Dreadful Incident or other. Like the time my grandmother had an aneurism the day after my uncle's wedding, or the old lady that died at an Irish wedding my inlaws went to recently.
Well, at least nobody died. And my family are a bunch of pacifist academic liberals, so a fight was never likely. But although they're not in the habit of throwing fists about, they do rather like to throw elbows, knees and any other body part that's throwable when they're drunk and there's a dancefloor. And that was all great, until a 78-yr-old woman got in the way of one of the aforementioned body parts and got herself whacked across the dancefloor and into a radiator, which she hit rather spectacularly with her head and then lay there, unconscious for a while.
Of course, as soon as she came round the band started playing again, but she wasn't well enough to move, and although most people were happy to overlook the body at the edge of the dance floor and keep boogying, a Sensible Aunt intervened.
And so, we sat. On the edges of Glasgow on a Saturday night, waiting for an ambulance that didn't come for over an hour... but lo, it arrived! At the same time as the pre-booked taxis to take everybody back to the not-very-near hotel.
Ah well, what the heck. We all trooped back to the hotel and drank whisky and hot chocolate until 4am, and my several million cousins and I got more drunk and nattered about nothing in particular, and I wholeheartedly recommend it as a way of spending time on a Saturday night.
What I do not recommend, wholeheartedly or otherwise, is that you follow it by only 3.5 hours' sleep and an 8.5-hour train journey back to Manchester.
It would have been only six hours, were I not so spectacularly transportmentally challenged. Did I tell you about the time I got on a train just because it said it was going to Manchester, even though I'd only just left Manchester and was in fact on my way to Staffordshire? Or the time I got off the bus at the wrong place? Or the time I had flat tyres? Or the time I ran out of fuel when there was a panther on the loose? Or the other time I ran out of fuel, or the other one or the other one...
I'm not too bad at getting myself onto or into various forms of transport. The problem is that once I'm there, I assume my job is done. Such minor trifles as holding onto bus tickets, checking fuel gauges, paying drivers or changing trains go right out of my head.
On Sunday I did really well. I ordered a taxi, I got in it, I got out of it, I paid the driver, I stood on the correct platform, I got on the right train, I got off it again at the right place, I even managed to find the correct train-replacement-bus AND got off it again, and all with an hour to spare. This, I think, was my downfall. "Ooh," I thought. "A whole hour." A more travel-savvy person would have thought something more like, "Ooh, a whole fifty minutes plus ten minutes for finding and getting on the next train," but not me.
I looked at my watch a couple of times as the hour of departure drew near and thought, "No no, not time yet" and continued to read my book and munch my sandwich.
I had brought sandwiches with me, but they'd been in my bag over 24 hours and smelt a little suspect. And tasted slightly wrong too. But there was a little shop immediately opposite my seat, so that was OK. I really couldn't be bothered gathering all my belongings together and risk losing my seat into the bargain, so I turned to the man next to me and said, "Look, I'm just leaving this black rucksack here while I go into the shop. It's not a bomb."
Amazingly, he believed me.
(it wasn't a bomb)
So anyway, with two minutes to spare I gathered all my stuff up, went in search of a display, arrived just in time to see my train disappearing from the display, puzzled over it for a minute or two, asked a man, who said, "It's down the other end! Turn right, then left! You've got ten seconds!"
So I ran, really fast, and I huffed, and I dodged the stupid standing-staring people, and it was all right. The train was still on the platform.
"NO!" said a voice.
I ignored it.
"STOP!" said the voice.
I ignored it again. Probably some nutter-lady.
"THE DOORS ARE LOCKED! NO!" said the voice, in a tone you'd use if you were looking after a naughty child who kept doing something they weren't supposed to do. Somebody else's child. And you were somebody who really hated kids.
I turned to see a frowny-looking lady in a uniform, wagging her finger and being all cross with me for wanting to get on her train.
"But it's right there!" I said. "And I need to get on it!"
The train wasn't going anywhere. It was just standing on the platform. The guard was ambling up to the driver's cab. I looked at him appealingly. He raised his eyes sympathetically, but "NO!" said Nasty Lady again, and I stood there and watched helplessly as the train failed to leave and the doors failed to open and Horrible Pouty Woman glared at me like I was some kind of train-entering vandal.
And finally the train left, and I started to cry, and had to go and hide in the toilets and sob a little, or at least I would have done if there wasn't a long queue of doddering toilet-visitors all failing to understand the basic concept of putting-20p-in-a-slot and me standing well-behavedly in line behind them with tears falling down my cheeks but finally losing patience and shouting at some poor woman who was struggling to understand the big green arrow pointing which way she should go, "GO!" I screamed at her. "Through there! Now!" and she did and I did and then I hid in a cubicle and cried and hoped she guessed I wasn't quite feeling myself.
But then I realised I was in the middle of Edinburgh and it was two hours until the next train so I went and had a look at Edinburgh and cor blimey stone me, but what a beautiful city it is. I climbed something called the Scott Monument all the way to the top, despite being slightly too fat for the final staircase, and squeeezed myself out the top with a little pop! and admired the amazing views. And the sun was sunning and I felt a little better.
When I got on the next train, Big Old Meany Woman was there again, with her clipboard. I gave her a Hard Stare.
And then spent another 3.5 hours on trains and it was pretty grim to be honest.
Still, Edinburgh's nice.
___
Labels: Disaster Prone, Storytelling
