An eventful trip to the smoke

Normally my train journeys to the smoke are very mundane. Read the paper on the way down, do the crossword on the way back, or sit with my laptop open working, writing, or playing cards. Either way, I'm in a world of my own and that, for the most part, is how I like it.

Today was a little different.

On the way down, I was joined at my table by a pair of golden boys - businessmen with their trademark cropped grey hair, loud ties and stripey shirts, who proceeded to spend the rest of the journey jousting with each other to see how many buzz-phrases they could cram in to the smallest sentence. I wish I'd had my Buzzword Bingo card with me, cos I'd have scored a full house in no time. We had downsizing, going through the process, utilising, pushing the envelope, empowerment, game plans and leveraging galore. If I'd been offering extra points for combination play I'd have won the lottery.

Anyway that's not the main point of my story. What really made this a journey to remember was the return trip, when I was again joined at my table by two people. Young women this time, and they had a third friend who elected to sit across the aisle from the first two rather than squeeze in around the table.

I kept my head buried in the crossword to start with, looking up occasionally to answer questions on the location of the loo and the train shop. And did they sell drinks. And when would we be getting into Manchester. And did I do this trip often.

When they returned from the shop with three small bottles of coke and proceeded to extract a litre of Bacardi from their handbag (can you have a collective handbag?) I had a gestalt realisation that I wasn't going to be finishing the crossword this time round. Sure enough their conversation became ever louder and more bawdy as the trip progressed, interspersed with the odd "sorry" from the girl on my right - who I later learned was Chris - as she kept nudging me with her elbow. Chris it was who first failed to work out how to lock the toilet door (there are instructions posted on the inside, but they must be fairly incomprehensible to most folk, as not a trip goes by without someone pressing the toilet alarm instead of the "unlock" button), and was walked in on in the middle of ... err ... proceedings by a young man, causing an explosion of giggles from all three. During the course of the journey one of her mates also failed to decipher the mystery of the lock, and was also walked in on by another, different, young man.

The three of them were off to sample the delights of the Greater Manchester conurbation, in the shape of three of Bolton's finest lads they'd hooked up with via t'Interweb. This coincidence having given us a common frame of reference, the remaining hour of the journey passed in shared conversation, which eventually incorporated the other two occupants of our section of carriage - a Mum with two (very) young children in tow and a single woman who initially appeared tempted by their offer to seek a fourth mate from Bolton if only she would accompany them on their sojourn to Moon Under Water. Name of establishment not an instruction for submarine exposure activities, lest there be any doubt.

By the end of the journey the six of us, and just about anyone else who happened past, were all behaving as if we'd known each other all our lives. Stories had been shared, jokes exchanged, as well as promises to let us all know how they got on with the modern equivalent of a blind date. We parted at Piccadilly with hugs and smiles and wishes of good luck, and I was left marvelling at how a normally boring trip had been transformed by the liberal splashing of a bit of Bacardi and bonhomie.