It's strange living two lives like I do. Half the time in this lonely place where I often spend days without talking to another person and then the rest in the middle of London surrrounded by noise and crowds. The journey between takes four hours, two of them on the train. Every train trip manages to be either agonisingly boring or really stressful as the whole rail network is f@cked. It is so unusual for the train to be on time, not packed full and without lunatics or small children in the compartment that it is the first thing you tell people at the other end.

I used to collect the 'leaves on the line' type excuses until there were too many. My favourite was when they announced, after a long pause, that a goose had flown through the driver's window and the train would have to continue backwards. (This blog seems a little goose-based but is in fact not). Another time I was sitting next to the guard's door and could hear them discussing, after an inexplicable wait at some tiny station, what they should do as the driver was having an emotional crisis. He had rushed off the train into a bar on the platform and downed two whiskies so could no longer legally drive.

The amazing pleasure of our country station. It is out in the fields on its own and completely silent. The grass comes right up to the platform on one side and you can watch rabbits and buzzards while you wait for your train. We picked a taxi firm at random when we first came and have stuck with it. They only have four drivers now. The wife of the original owner also drove and between trips seduced all the others and finally ran off with a rather sinister-looking young one with a large moustache and set up a rival firm. Which we can never use, even if desperate, out of loyalty. It's so restfull, after an irritating journey, to be driven home listening to gentle ramblings of lust and betrayal.


- posted by Iris @ 9/11/2003 01:33:00 AM comment

 
The skeins of geese were flying overhead today and I was picking blackberries as fast as I could before it rained. It's a guilt thing, as I will probably just freeze them and throw most of them away next year to make room for some other seasonal exitement. The idea that on Michaelmas Day, 29 Sept., the Devil will spit on them and they will then be bitter and inedible, makes me totally put off, even though they usually taste just the same.
Last year at this time I was running in and out at every faint goose call, trying to take photographs as they passed really low over the house. Sometimes there were thirty at once. Of course they mostly come at dusk which isn't ideal photograph-wise. I had wasted hours and nearly finished the film, when we were burgled and the camera was gone. I always hoped that someone bothered to develop the pictures out of curiosity and ended up with heaps of grey out-of-focus crap.
Our house is so remote that not only did we never lock anything, but we actually left the front door ajar for two weeks when we went on holiday so that the cats could go in and out comfortably. The burglary was a huge surprise. As the policeman said, 'We don't normally get that round here'. With amazingly acute detective powers I guessed it was the delinquent boy who was being given 'another chance' by working on the fields next to us. As they could not possibly hurt his feelings by accusing him without 'proof', he used the three months they took to process his fingerprints to burgle us twice more and steal two of our cars, which he left unhurt near his own home. We now have major sensor lights, locks, inside movement monitors and god knows what. All too boring to activate most of the time, obviously.
The policeman took it as a personal insult and often rang me first thing in the morning to see if I was 'all right'. I got quite ratty after a bit and asked him sharply why he hadn't arrested the boy. 'We're getting there' he said, 'It doesn't do to rush these things'. I dialled 1471 for his number in case I was attacked in the night and found he had been ringing from his kitchen as the local police station had been closed down for lack of activity.
He was arrested in the end and behaved in a sad and pathetic manner and I felt really sorry for him and was going to send him a present. Luckily I mentioned this to my children who all screamed, especially my son who had lost several favourite things, and I realised it would be totally stupid.

Anyway, it was at this time of year and that is why I can't see the geese without thinking about it and pointlessly worrying that he will have a horrible life. Well, he obviously will.

- posted by Iris @ 9/10/2003 01:09:00 AM (0) comments comment

 
The journal of Iris Storm.
- posted by Iris @ 9/09/2003 11:45:00 PM (0) comments comment