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Kate AnsellTRAIN. AGAIN. Anyway, the other day I was out for a meal with some friends, and we ate Italian food in Soho while I refused to acknowledge that I have a boyfriend. As it happens, I don’t have a boyfriend, although a few weeks ago me and this boy I’ve known for a little while… Well, stuff happened. Stuff happens, you know. And we’re still in touch, me and the boy I did stuff with, which is nice, and we’ll see. One of the friends I was eating with, he was making a big deal of that, like I’m going to get married or something. The friend doesn’t know who it was that I did stuff with, and I wouldn’t tell him. This was irritating him. He was so irritated he ordered veal. I’m not vegetarian, not anymore, but veal, I’ve just never been able to – I think it’s the crates – and he did it just to annoy me, I know he did. I’ll get to the point. ...I've missed it. Bollocks... The point is that I had a good night and went hoarse with all the arguing, but by the time I got to the station it was later than usual, and I was knackered, and I’d had a beer, and I had to get up early for work and I just wanted to get home.To be honest, I thought I’d missed the eleven o’clock. It was, like, twenty past and the train was meant to go at six minutes past or whatever. But there it was on the board, expected twenty two minutes past. Well, I thought my luck was in. It’s not often the delays work in my favour. So I ran for it. I’m using the verb "run" loosely. Actually, I lifted my stick at an angle and hobbled precariously on my emaciated crippled limbs in an unusually pacy manner, thus putting myself and others at risk, upsetting my already dubious centre of gravity whilst labouring under the illusion that I was going to get there faster. Just as I approached the train – platform 18, in case you’re wondering – I realised it was one of those Front Train Only bastard trains, which means you can only get on in the four carriages furthest from the ticket barriers, which means I have the length of half a train to run before I can get on. Which is quite along way, if you’re me. Especially when the train leaves in thirty seconds. Especially when there’s a short fat man in an ugly uniform blowing a whistle and going red in the face and shouting at everyone to hurry up. (I’d say I think he was mates with the ticket inspector from last time, but that would be churlish.) So everyone runs past me. A couple of people do ask me if I’m all right, and I do appreciate the gesture but there’s not a lot they can do to help me. So I’m bringing up the rear, just like the lame kid in the Pied Piper of Hamlyn, the one who got left behind when everyone else followed the Piper into the cave. God, I bloody hate that story. Moral of that story: non-disabled kids have all the fun. Not that I’m bitter. Anyway, pretty much all the drunkard professionals in London are on the delayed 23:06 and it’s 23:25, and I’m still a whole carriage away. And the whistle-blowing man, he’s shouting now. He’s telling everyone to stand away from the doors, and by and large they’re doing so, some of them shooting me sympathetic looks as they disappear. I don’t want their sympathy, of course. Then some lithe ballet-dancer bloke skips on and the platform’s clear, and the doors start closing, and I think that’s it, I’ve missed it, bollocks. And suddenly, suddenly there’s a beardy bloke sticking his head out of his carriage door and cheering me on. And he’s holding the door so it doesn’t close. The train’s already twenty minutes late before we’ve even left London so it’s not like it’s going to make much difference in the grand scheme of things, but the man with the whistle is properly angry with the beardy man. He’s really shouting. He’s probably swearing too, but I can’t hear that. Everyone else thinks it’s funny. The beardy man is grinning at me and laughing at the whistle man. I’m just running. Kate Ansell works in TV and writes Everyone Else Has A Blog Her first piece was loosely pilfered from a piece she wrote there for on Un-Made-Up back in July. Sending in this new story, she writes, "I'm pretty sure Southern Trains have a voodoo doll of me by now..." The photos were taken by Adrian Turner, another traveller on the Victoria to Brighton run. They're part of a series called Inbound - Dream Journey which Adrian took to evoke the dream-like experience of being a commuter.
10:18 PM - 28/11/2006 - post comment
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