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