Train Pain

I find that I rarely choose to drive into London these days. Not having two cars is one reason, but a combination of parking, congestion charge, cost of petrol, being able to have a drink and a snooze, and simply the time involved means I usually choose the train.

When I was commuting - either daily or weekly - I used to generally choose the train as well. But whichever mode one chooses, there are times when it feels like the wrong choice.

Both modes are capable of throwing up a massive problem - whether it be a motorway pile-up or the wrong type of body on the line.

Yesterday, travelling in for a game at the club in London, I elected once again to let the train take the strain. I took a precaution though. When Karen dropped me at Bedford, I asked her to ait whilst I checked the departure boards. All clear. OK.

Well, as I waited, the practised eye could discern some warning signs and - lo - at 18:06 (the exact departure time) the train was then, and only then, deemed to be running 18 minutes late.

Not disastrous yet. When it arrived, it sat ominously on the platform even though it was already late. It was also packed.

Eventually, they made a further announcement. "overhead live problems at Flitwick - no trains are running through the area". Well, why didn't you say so before ?

I decided it was not too late to abandon ship, get the car, and drive in after all. I stood up and tried to open the door. It was locked. We began moving - I was committed now. Two other travellers had also tried to take the same escape route, and likewise failed.

The fact we were moving should have indicated that the problems were resolved, but the sinking feeling was that we were simply moving into no man's land.

To say the journey was not without irritations would be an understatement. The clunk-clunk of the inter-carriage doors repeatedly opening and closing. The screaming children, the mobile phones, the ridiculous announcements ("we are closing the buffet bar so that we can have some turnaround time in London" - at least an hour away .... ).

The good news was that we did trundle more or less continuously towards London - via Flitwick (or Flit-Wick as they insisted on calling it) and arrived a modest 45minutes late.

The good thing was I was travelling to a tournament that I myself had organized, so they weren't going to start without me !