This happened to me a while ago now, but was probably one of the main reasons I decided to base my blog around things that drive me crazy. It stuck in my mind (and my best friend Charlotte's) for so long that I think it riled me up more than the hoard of women at the Palace Theatre. I think our trip to Norwich for our best friend's birthday was doomed from the start where transport is concerned. I could have made my journey much simpler, by getting a train directly from where I live in Manchester to Norwich, however what's a 4 hour journey without your best mate? Crap. That's what. So instead, I decided to firstly travel to Leeds, to meet Charl, where we would then get on a train to Peterborough, and once at Peterborough, change to the train to Norwich. The amount of tickets we had for this trip should have shown us something was going to go wrong, along with Charl's track record (she can't get on a train without there being a cow on the track or a fire in a tunnel.) Everything ran smoothly until Peterborough. The train was slowing into the station, we had a connection to make, we were bustling about grabbing our cases, throwing magazines around and shouting at the elderly. Stood at the door trying to get off is where some short, balding little shit on a power trip (who quite frankly looked like he'd found his outfit in the Early Learning Centre) decided not to let us off (he was a conductor, not just a horrible man.) The train set off again and panic set in. I could tell you all about how much we reacted when we realised we were going to have to go to LONDON, but to cut a long story short, the only living, nice conductor on this Earth put us in first class (good looking girls and a young conductor? He couldn't let us down), made sure our tickets were still valid and told us to get a train from King's Cross to Peterborough, which we did, then another to Norwich. We arrived at our destination about two and a half hours late. Instead of dwelling on it we grabbed a shower, donned our cavegirl outfits (that was the theme for the party, it's not how we choose to drown our sorrows) and got drunk. Very drunk.
The night out, thank god, was uncomplicated... and awesome. Apart from Lauren (birthday girl) getting completely wasted, telling us all she loved us 5000 times, throwing up copious amounts and repeatedly trying to call the police when I fell over on the dancefloor... it was great! After all, I'm sure there's a law that allows whoevers birthday it is to get well and truly off their trolley... isn't there?
Fast forward to the journey home. This journey, in terms of getting the correct trains etc, was fine. It was the absolute terrors on the train that made it one of those journeys that you'd sell your soul to the devil just to be over with. It didn't help that I had a hangover of the queasy kind and every time I turned my head I thought I was going to vomit up the panini I'd forced down. Now that WOULD have made it the journey from hell. Especially for the people around me... As we'd booked our tickets, we had our own seats and headed for them straight away, settling down to a nice, quiet, relaxing journey. That lasted all of 2 minutes. On scrambled what can only be described as 65 year old girl guides. What are they? The ones with the matching outfits who go on day trips and wear badges? I'll never know. Anyway, 5 I'd have been able to deal with. Maybe even ten. There were at least 15 or 20 of these guides - cardigans loosely tied around their necks like golfers, comfy loafers from Clarks, reading glasses hanging around their necks on chains. Where do these old aged pensioners get their energy from!? And why are they following me!?
They got on the train with bulging bags for life, and because of how many of them there were, they could have quickly worked out the threshold of the seats they had, which was practically the entire carriage minus two nauseated students with the remains of cavegirl mud smeared down their arms. Just like the debacle at the theatre, despite the sheer number of old women, they decided to get into the correct seats. Think about the limited space in the aisle and add twenty pensioners, complete with shopping and overcoats, scrambling to get into their seats, plus lots of "Where's my glasses, I can't see what seat I'm in... Ohh they're around your neck Mavis! HAHAHAHAHA". You could almost see the smoke coming out of my ears. I felt sick, I had a raging headache, I needed sleep. Yes it was self inflicted, but Mavis sure wasn't helping. She even had the cheek to podge down the aisle and peer at the number on Charlotte's seat, just above her head. Obviously a nineteen and twenty year old such as ourselves could NEVER book tickets of our own, so we must be in theirs! No. We should be out drinking cider from a plastic bottle on the street and hassling shop owners. I've got to admit, she was met with quite a steely glare off Charl. It was enough to reset her pacemaker anyway.
It took almost half the journey from Norwich to Peterborough for them to get into their seats and get settled. Then, to only make matters worse (for me, definately not for them!) they used the other half to not only get out, but swap packed lunches! Cue more wobbling up and down the carriage and the screaming of "Are you peckish Anne? Do you want a sandwich? Do you want a crisp?" ANNE HAD HER OWN CRISPS! I swear I saw someone throw an apple. It's not teenagers that need watching on public transport, it's the over 50's!
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