Virgin Trains, eh? It's been a while, but this week I had occasion to delight in their services again. Since I last travelled they've been plastered with WiFi stickers. HotSpot (they shout): fast, reliable, wireless internet. Log on now.
Love to mate. But not at £4 an hour. And not when you're already stiffing me (well, my company) £142.50 for a single ticket to London. Our local cafe, which charges £1.99 for a cup of coffee, can offer me free WiFi for as long as I continue drinking. The least you could do is match this with free WiFi as long as I'm travelling. I guess you don't get to be a millionaire by giving shit away, huh?
Showing posts with label trains. Show all posts
Showing posts with label trains. Show all posts
Saturday, November 05, 2011
Tuesday, March 31, 2009
Argy-bargy
Yesterday we went to Liverpool for the day.
Quite frankly it wouldn't bother me overmuch if I never saw that drab, uninteresting place ever again. I'm not one for "city breaks" at the best of times, and Liverpool has the added disadvantage of being populated by Liverpudlians who in my experience are all weighed down by enormous chips on their shoulders, but Paul wanted to see it, and I didn't have anything better to do, so off we went.
At least the day started well. I didn't have to drive. We took the train, which gave us the opportunity to breakfast on bagels from The Bagel Factory. It was around then that things took a turn for the worse though, as I hit the wrong button on the ticket machine (by millimetres) and bought us three SINGLE tickets to Lime Street. Which, as it turned out, was only ten PENCE cheaper per ticket than three returns, thereby costing us an extra thirty quid. An expensive mistake which didn't do much for my mood, especially bearing in mind the destination.
Arriving at Lime Street around 11am, we trudged off to visit Paddy's wig-wam, and from there went down to the Albert Dock to mooch disconsolately around the rusting hulks and newly refurbished visitors centre selling the same tired old tat you always get at these places, along with the usual assortment of coffees and fast food.
From there we hiked the five hundred and eighty miles to the St John Centre, a stunningly original shopping centre with no roof and an array of shops never before seen like Gap, M&S, William Hill's, Dolcis and Waterstones. You begin to get a flavour of why I think visiting cities is largely pointless. Even a late lunch in Wetherspoons did little to alleviate my feelings of impending doom. Mainly because we revisited The Richard John Blackler, which has just about the worst online reviews of any Wetherspoons I've ever visited, and lived up to its poor reputation for dirty tables, late food and disinterested staff.
Somewhere along the line we also wandered past the Cavern Club, and took the concrete steps down into its dingy interior. The air was redolent of years of sweaty bodies packed into what is effectively an underground toilet, the acid rock stage reminiscent of my student days when we would hump such a construction from one end of the student union to another to accommodate some random event or other, and every available surface is covered with graffiti from those strange people who think it's important to record the fact that they've visited a place like this. In that respect, maybe this blog is like a slightly more sophisticated form of graffiti. The differences being that I'm not really bothered whether anyone knows I've been there or not - it was just another stop - and, of course, that this graffiti is here, rather than there. Anyway, it's a dump. Famous only because one of the world's most recognised bands played there a few times, still living on that reflected glory fifty years later, and now hosting bands that just want to be able to tick the box that says "we played the Cavern Club." Sad.
The highlight of the day proved to be a visit to the Apple store, which unusually for us turned into much more than a quick wander round and a drool. For once we did talk to one of the demo guys and learned quite a lot about what you can do with an iMac, what's in the box, etc. They're still expensive for what you get, but they're bloody fast, almost virus-free and beautiful to look at. I know that description will sound a lot like Linux to at least one of you (apart from the expensive bit), but it was an interesting hour for all that.
Today Nikki & Paul headed off for a walk around the Salford Quays/Castlefield canals, so I took the opportunity to stay at home and do not very much. Our day was rounded off with another evening meal at Wetherspoons followed by some TV. Perfect.
Quite frankly it wouldn't bother me overmuch if I never saw that drab, uninteresting place ever again. I'm not one for "city breaks" at the best of times, and Liverpool has the added disadvantage of being populated by Liverpudlians who in my experience are all weighed down by enormous chips on their shoulders, but Paul wanted to see it, and I didn't have anything better to do, so off we went.
At least the day started well. I didn't have to drive. We took the train, which gave us the opportunity to breakfast on bagels from The Bagel Factory. It was around then that things took a turn for the worse though, as I hit the wrong button on the ticket machine (by millimetres) and bought us three SINGLE tickets to Lime Street. Which, as it turned out, was only ten PENCE cheaper per ticket than three returns, thereby costing us an extra thirty quid. An expensive mistake which didn't do much for my mood, especially bearing in mind the destination.
Arriving at Lime Street around 11am, we trudged off to visit Paddy's wig-wam, and from there went down to the Albert Dock to mooch disconsolately around the rusting hulks and newly refurbished visitors centre selling the same tired old tat you always get at these places, along with the usual assortment of coffees and fast food.From there we hiked the five hundred and eighty miles to the St John Centre, a stunningly original shopping centre with no roof and an array of shops never before seen like Gap, M&S, William Hill's, Dolcis and Waterstones. You begin to get a flavour of why I think visiting cities is largely pointless. Even a late lunch in Wetherspoons did little to alleviate my feelings of impending doom. Mainly because we revisited The Richard John Blackler, which has just about the worst online reviews of any Wetherspoons I've ever visited, and lived up to its poor reputation for dirty tables, late food and disinterested staff.
Somewhere along the line we also wandered past the Cavern Club, and took the concrete steps down into its dingy interior. The air was redolent of years of sweaty bodies packed into what is effectively an underground toilet, the acid rock stage reminiscent of my student days when we would hump such a construction from one end of the student union to another to accommodate some random event or other, and every available surface is covered with graffiti from those strange people who think it's important to record the fact that they've visited a place like this. In that respect, maybe this blog is like a slightly more sophisticated form of graffiti. The differences being that I'm not really bothered whether anyone knows I've been there or not - it was just another stop - and, of course, that this graffiti is here, rather than there. Anyway, it's a dump. Famous only because one of the world's most recognised bands played there a few times, still living on that reflected glory fifty years later, and now hosting bands that just want to be able to tick the box that says "we played the Cavern Club." Sad.The highlight of the day proved to be a visit to the Apple store, which unusually for us turned into much more than a quick wander round and a drool. For once we did talk to one of the demo guys and learned quite a lot about what you can do with an iMac, what's in the box, etc. They're still expensive for what you get, but they're bloody fast, almost virus-free and beautiful to look at. I know that description will sound a lot like Linux to at least one of you (apart from the expensive bit), but it was an interesting hour for all that.
Today Nikki & Paul headed off for a walk around the Salford Quays/Castlefield canals, so I took the opportunity to stay at home and do not very much. Our day was rounded off with another evening meal at Wetherspoons followed by some TV. Perfect.
Wednesday, June 04, 2008
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.
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.
Friday, March 28, 2008
London
When Nikki said she'd found a train ticket deal for a day trip to London, I wasn't sure how I felt about it. There was no doubt it was an excellent deal - £16 return for the day compared to the £236 I usually pay to travel down on business - but those last few words held the key to my dilemma. I go down there so often with work (and hate it every time) - how would I feel as a day tripper? Wasn't it going to be a bit of a busman's holiday, even though we were going by train?I needn't have worried. I didn't have to rush, or leave early, or battle the rush-hour tube, or carry a laptop bag everywhere with me, so the entire trip was much more relaxed and didn't have the slightest resemblance to a work day.
We left Piccadilly on the 9.15 and arrived just before 11.30. Not really having any firm plans for the day (a mistake, as it later turned out) we set off to spend a couple of hours in the Science Museum. This proved a bit disappointing. Parts of it were being refurbished and the rest had been thrown out of kilter by having some exhibits housed in alternative positions. I also found many of the displays - designed for today's youth with their microsecond attention spans - quite unsatisfying to browse, although there were some neat items like the first Cray supercomputer and the original DNA model that Watson and Crick put together.
Emerging from the museum around 1pm and unsure where to head next, we walked around the block through a short shower of rain - the only rain we suffered during the whole day - passing the Albert Hall and then setting off for Kensington to find a place to lunch. Walking down Kensington High Street, we passed Paul Weller - our only celebrity encounter of the day.Eventually we recognised a few landmarks and ended up at the Lord Moon of the Mall - the Wetherspoons pub at which we had intended to meet up with a bunch of friends several years before but which had been closed back then owing to a bomb scare in Whitehall.
A couple of pints and a sandwich later, we were suitably refreshed and set off again in the general direction of Westminster. When I first visited London - a 17th birthday present from my parents - we had ticked off all the major tourist destinations. Back then this included Downing Street, and we were able to walk right up to the front door of No. 10 and stare into the whites of the eyes of the single London bobby who stood on duty protecting the head of Government.
Clearly the head of Government requires a deal more protection these days. Not only is it impossible to get within 50 feet of No. 10 owing to the road being closed off with several tons of ironwork and automatic barriers that rise silently from the road, but the single bobby has been replaced with an entire squad of armed police in Kevlar vests, sporting automatic rifles.
They smile at the passing tourists, but the smile doesn't quite reach their eyes. I walk past similar barriers, even sturdier and with an even larger police presence, every time I visit Westminster. It's a blight on the London landscape. Do other countries feel the need to protect their PM this way, or is it just rampant paranoia? I don't know, but I can't help feeling that it may all look very impressive, but none of it would stop a determined terrorist with an ounce of sense.
We walked over Westminster Bridge, snapping away at the Eye and the bizarre artwork outside the Dali exhibition, and along the other side of the river (Jubilee Walk is it? Or something) where four strange figures dressed all in silver were standing or sitting motionless except for the breeze-induced flutterings of their monochrome costumes. Every now and then one of them might lean forward unexpectedly to bop anyone who threw change into his pot lightly on the head with a long silver staff. This lady merely sat with her demur smile fixed prettily on her face, holding her hat on against the wind. London in all its mad eccentricity. Top stuff.Walking back over Jubilee Bridge we stopped for a pint in the Sherlock Holmes before wending our way slowly back to Euston. Here's where our lack of planning really bit home. We arrived at Euston three hours before our scheduled departure time. Not really enough time to pack in any other sightseeing and still feel comfortable about making the train (the dealtime tickets were only valid for the 9.05pm departure), or eat in a fancy restaurant where we couldn't guarantee the speed of service. So we holed up in a bar just around the corner from Euston and then, still with a couple of hours to kill, sat down to a plate of Harry Ramsden's fish, chips and mushy peas in the station caff.
The pre-Summer Time light was fading fast as we walked to the main station entrance on the way to that fine repast. Countless times I've passed through Euston and this was my first chance to take photos. Maybe I should invest in a pocket digital of the kind Nikki uses, and carry it everywhere. Maybe I should turn into a photoblogger. Maybe I should stop stressing about this stuff. Anyway, here's Euston. And there we go - back to Manchester, arriving at 11.29 pm. Footsore and sleepy, but having had a strangely fulfilling experience.
Tuesday, February 26, 2008
Three short ones
Travel to London always seems to get the blogging juices flowing, and today was no exception.
The Tutter.
This morning, catching the Tube from Victoria Station heading for Westminster, I stood next to a tutter. I don't know what she expected. It was 8.30 on a Tuesday morning. The middle of the rush hour. And yet whenever anyone jostled her, she'd make with an annoyed little tut. Like it was a personal affront, or something. I was behind her on the platform and we stepped aboard together. Having already had to let one train go due to overcrowding, those behind us were determined not to be caught out again, and heaved forward into the train, forcing us right up against those already standing inside. Sardines have it better. But it's nothing unusual for that time of day, on that particular part of the Underground.
After the train departed, the jostling continued for some minutes, as people made themselves more comfortable and adjusted their body shapes to fit whatever space remained. An elbow here. A laptop bag there. Tut. Tut. Tut.
The Wrong Date.
I've been blogging about travelling down to London on and off for almost two years, and actually making the journey for a lot longer. One thing has always puzzled/annoyed me. That car park in Fairfield Street never has the right date on its ticket machine. How hard can it be, I thought each time the ticket was served up, to set it to the right date? In my experience it is the only machine to suffer from this ignominy, but for at least three years it has been set exactly one day ahead.
On occasion it's even occurred to me to phone the number on the machine and complain. Why don't you get the flippin' date right on your machine? Funnily enough, after all these years when it's been the only machine with this problem, I found another one last week when I went to Wakefield to give a presentation. Right opposite our offices. Same problem.
Am I glad I never called up to moan about it. Don't know what it was about this morning that made me more awake than usual, but I finally had a Doh! moment and realised what was going on. It's a full day journey to Westminster and back. I feed the machine to the max. £4.50. It gives me a 24-hour ticket. It shows the expiry time. Tomorrow.
For an intelligent guy I can be *really* dumb sometimes.
Final presentation.
The last of my roadshow presentations this afternoon, and a much reduced audience after last week's high of 19. Both morning and afternoon sessions only had 5 attendees but the second one was marred by one of my audience texting throughout the whole performance. I'd have considered this rude whatever the size of audience but with just the six of us in a tiny meeting room it was not only rude but astonishingly blatant. A couple of the messages were deemed amusing enough to show to her immediate neighbour, along with exchanged smiles.
I just kept on talking. The consummate professional. The old guy at the front never noticed the smiley exchanges. He was asleep for almost the whole thing.
The Tutter.
This morning, catching the Tube from Victoria Station heading for Westminster, I stood next to a tutter. I don't know what she expected. It was 8.30 on a Tuesday morning. The middle of the rush hour. And yet whenever anyone jostled her, she'd make with an annoyed little tut. Like it was a personal affront, or something. I was behind her on the platform and we stepped aboard together. Having already had to let one train go due to overcrowding, those behind us were determined not to be caught out again, and heaved forward into the train, forcing us right up against those already standing inside. Sardines have it better. But it's nothing unusual for that time of day, on that particular part of the Underground.
After the train departed, the jostling continued for some minutes, as people made themselves more comfortable and adjusted their body shapes to fit whatever space remained. An elbow here. A laptop bag there. Tut. Tut. Tut.
The Wrong Date.
I've been blogging about travelling down to London on and off for almost two years, and actually making the journey for a lot longer. One thing has always puzzled/annoyed me. That car park in Fairfield Street never has the right date on its ticket machine. How hard can it be, I thought each time the ticket was served up, to set it to the right date? In my experience it is the only machine to suffer from this ignominy, but for at least three years it has been set exactly one day ahead.
On occasion it's even occurred to me to phone the number on the machine and complain. Why don't you get the flippin' date right on your machine? Funnily enough, after all these years when it's been the only machine with this problem, I found another one last week when I went to Wakefield to give a presentation. Right opposite our offices. Same problem.
Am I glad I never called up to moan about it. Don't know what it was about this morning that made me more awake than usual, but I finally had a Doh! moment and realised what was going on. It's a full day journey to Westminster and back. I feed the machine to the max. £4.50. It gives me a 24-hour ticket. It shows the expiry time. Tomorrow.
For an intelligent guy I can be *really* dumb sometimes.
Final presentation.
The last of my roadshow presentations this afternoon, and a much reduced audience after last week's high of 19. Both morning and afternoon sessions only had 5 attendees but the second one was marred by one of my audience texting throughout the whole performance. I'd have considered this rude whatever the size of audience but with just the six of us in a tiny meeting room it was not only rude but astonishingly blatant. A couple of the messages were deemed amusing enough to show to her immediate neighbour, along with exchanged smiles.
I just kept on talking. The consummate professional. The old guy at the front never noticed the smiley exchanges. He was asleep for almost the whole thing.
Friday, October 26, 2007
Friday Five
It was one of those days yesterday.
Despite very creatively steering my afternoon meeting to the point where, 45 minutes in, we had only one agenda item left, and thinking therefore, perfectly reasonably in my view, that with an hour to go we could realistically hope to get away at 3pm, rather than 4pm as the room booking and original scheduled meeting time would suppose, I had reckoned without the determination of my fellow attendees. Determined, they were, to spin the meeting out to its allotted time. Indeed even that was not sufficient as we hung back at the end of the meeting continuing a debate that I'd been trying to shut down for half an hour.
The end result was that I had to catch the 5.05 and arrived in Manchester mere minutes too late to put up the posters on my way home, before the play started. I had to wait an hour until the interval and then make a special trip over there. Pah!
That wasn't the worst though. On the train journey home I sat across the aisle from an older guy (looked to be in his early sixties) and a younger woman (mid thirties?) who’d clearly been on a business trip for the day. For the first hour and a half of the journey, while he was regaling her with tales of family holidays and whatnot she sat turned towards him in rapt attention going “yeah…yeah…yeah” constantly (I mean at the rate of one yeah every 5-10 seconds), interspersed with nervous forced giggles. I tell you, it did my head in. What he was telling her sounded about as funny as boils, so God knows what the hell she was laughing at, and why she found it necessary to keep up the constant stream of “yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah” after literally every fourth or fifth word the guy spoke. Did someone tell her it’s what good listeners do? Does she realise it makes her sound like some kind of vacuous bovine moron? God.
And so to the business at hand...
1. What makes you feel exposed?
Being asked a question that I'm "supposed" to know the answer to, or to provide an explanation for something I should understand, but which I haven't been keeping tabs on and therefore don't know/understand. Years ago the threat of being in that situation would have spurred me on to read more, learn more, do more. But it's a growing problem as my increasing lack of enthusiasm for my job and it's massively expanded scope and complexity have conspired to rob me of any chance of keeping up.
2. What do you have to force yourself to do?
Get up on a cold morning. Do the household budgeting. Tidy up. Gardening (although I usually enjoy that once I get started).
3. Where do you like to spend your time outdoors?
Anywhere by the sea, or where there are trees.
4. What surprises you?
How stupid people can be.
How wonderful people can be.
5. Friday fill-in:
Late at night I'm ____.
Assembling Chorlton Players photographs into posters! (This week only lol)
Despite very creatively steering my afternoon meeting to the point where, 45 minutes in, we had only one agenda item left, and thinking therefore, perfectly reasonably in my view, that with an hour to go we could realistically hope to get away at 3pm, rather than 4pm as the room booking and original scheduled meeting time would suppose, I had reckoned without the determination of my fellow attendees. Determined, they were, to spin the meeting out to its allotted time. Indeed even that was not sufficient as we hung back at the end of the meeting continuing a debate that I'd been trying to shut down for half an hour.
The end result was that I had to catch the 5.05 and arrived in Manchester mere minutes too late to put up the posters on my way home, before the play started. I had to wait an hour until the interval and then make a special trip over there. Pah!
That wasn't the worst though. On the train journey home I sat across the aisle from an older guy (looked to be in his early sixties) and a younger woman (mid thirties?) who’d clearly been on a business trip for the day. For the first hour and a half of the journey, while he was regaling her with tales of family holidays and whatnot she sat turned towards him in rapt attention going “yeah…yeah…yeah” constantly (I mean at the rate of one yeah every 5-10 seconds), interspersed with nervous forced giggles. I tell you, it did my head in. What he was telling her sounded about as funny as boils, so God knows what the hell she was laughing at, and why she found it necessary to keep up the constant stream of “yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah” after literally every fourth or fifth word the guy spoke. Did someone tell her it’s what good listeners do? Does she realise it makes her sound like some kind of vacuous bovine moron? God.
And so to the business at hand...
1. What makes you feel exposed?
Being asked a question that I'm "supposed" to know the answer to, or to provide an explanation for something I should understand, but which I haven't been keeping tabs on and therefore don't know/understand. Years ago the threat of being in that situation would have spurred me on to read more, learn more, do more. But it's a growing problem as my increasing lack of enthusiasm for my job and it's massively expanded scope and complexity have conspired to rob me of any chance of keeping up.
2. What do you have to force yourself to do?
Get up on a cold morning. Do the household budgeting. Tidy up. Gardening (although I usually enjoy that once I get started).
3. Where do you like to spend your time outdoors?
Anywhere by the sea, or where there are trees.
4. What surprises you?
How stupid people can be.
How wonderful people can be.
5. Friday fill-in:
Late at night I'm ____.
Assembling Chorlton Players photographs into posters! (This week only lol)
Thursday, October 11, 2007
The Outlaws #6 - Passport to Toronto?
Another day, another train journey to London. This holiday seems more like work every day.
In one respect, today's was a more relaxed start than yesterday. Since the only requirement was to get to Canada House before it closed, Nikki and her Mum could take the latest possible train: the 10.15am, arriving at Euston at 12.26.
That was pretty much the only respect in which this day was less stressful. When we set off from home we didn't know whether or not the passport was even available to collect, but Nikki reasoned we should get to the station and then make the call, rather than try and rush over there at the last minute. CH doesn't open until 9.30 anyway, so we would be cutting it fine whatever we did.
We arrived at Piccadilly Station around 9.30 and the girls bought reading material for the train before Nikki made the first call. There was no reply. Just to add to the stress, Nikki's phone which had started off with a full three pips of charge, plummeted to a single pip as soon as she made that first call. She called again and this time left a message. I reckoned no matter how unlikely, there was just a chance CH had some telephony integration that would flash up an alert on the woman's PC screen if a message was left. It might even be converted into an email for her.
There was still no reply, and Nikki tried again a couple of times with no luck. Around ten minutes to ten, we started to reevaluate what we meant by "latest possible" train. Would the 10.45 be an option? Arriving at 13.02 it would be cutting it very fine, but the tube might be fairly empty at that time. There was just a chance... Or should they just get on the train anyway and chance it? Chance that they'd end up making a 5-hour round trip and spending £238 on rail fares only to have to do it all again tomorrow or Monday?
10am struck, with still no word. It was decision time. Virgin close their doors two minutes before the trains leave for safety reasons and we still hadn't bought the tickets. Then, at 10.05 exactly, ten minutes before the train was due to leave, Nikki's phone burst into life. She answered. The woman wasted precious seconds explaining why she hadn't been able to take the call earlier, or return the call sooner, or something, but then Nikki's eyes popped out of her head as the woman told her Shirley's passport was ready for collection. She grinned and nodded madly and I took this as my cue to rush to the ticket machines while Nikki ushered her Mum towards platform 4. With literally two or three minutes to spare I thrust the tickets into Nikki's hand as she ran down the platform.
As I strolled slowly back to the car trying to collect my jangling nerves, I reflected on the impact of a lost passport. Shirley and Neil only came for 7 days and fully 4 of those days have been affected one way or another by that single, simple, unlucky happenstance. A day searching for it, trying to find out what to do about it, and reporting it lost (which meant we couldn't go to Bakewell); a day at the photo place (admittedly not entirely wasted since there was some additional shopping done) and two days spent travelling to and from London. What a palaver.
And here I was, looking after Neil again. When I returned home he was still sat quietly in the lounge. No-one had told him his papers were already on the dining table waiting for form to be studied and betting strategies calculated. Still, if that's all he had to worry about, he should consider himself lucky, eh? I dropped him off at the bookies around noon and returned home to spend the day chilling out.
Having started on a knife-edge, the day finished as a bit of an anti-climax. Nikki reported back at lunchtime to say they had spent all of 5 minutes in Canada House ("here it is," "thank you very much") and since they had standard single tickets, had caught the next available train back. The 14.05, arriving in Manchester at 16.30. That left me with just enough time to meet Neil for a pint before collecting the girls from the station and returning with them for another. I had to drive everyone home, of course, so neither of them were particularly relaxing pints. Indeed from the knots in my shoulders I'm starting to wonder if I'll ever relax again. I think I need a holiday!
In one respect, today's was a more relaxed start than yesterday. Since the only requirement was to get to Canada House before it closed, Nikki and her Mum could take the latest possible train: the 10.15am, arriving at Euston at 12.26.
That was pretty much the only respect in which this day was less stressful. When we set off from home we didn't know whether or not the passport was even available to collect, but Nikki reasoned we should get to the station and then make the call, rather than try and rush over there at the last minute. CH doesn't open until 9.30 anyway, so we would be cutting it fine whatever we did.
We arrived at Piccadilly Station around 9.30 and the girls bought reading material for the train before Nikki made the first call. There was no reply. Just to add to the stress, Nikki's phone which had started off with a full three pips of charge, plummeted to a single pip as soon as she made that first call. She called again and this time left a message. I reckoned no matter how unlikely, there was just a chance CH had some telephony integration that would flash up an alert on the woman's PC screen if a message was left. It might even be converted into an email for her.
There was still no reply, and Nikki tried again a couple of times with no luck. Around ten minutes to ten, we started to reevaluate what we meant by "latest possible" train. Would the 10.45 be an option? Arriving at 13.02 it would be cutting it very fine, but the tube might be fairly empty at that time. There was just a chance... Or should they just get on the train anyway and chance it? Chance that they'd end up making a 5-hour round trip and spending £238 on rail fares only to have to do it all again tomorrow or Monday?
10am struck, with still no word. It was decision time. Virgin close their doors two minutes before the trains leave for safety reasons and we still hadn't bought the tickets. Then, at 10.05 exactly, ten minutes before the train was due to leave, Nikki's phone burst into life. She answered. The woman wasted precious seconds explaining why she hadn't been able to take the call earlier, or return the call sooner, or something, but then Nikki's eyes popped out of her head as the woman told her Shirley's passport was ready for collection. She grinned and nodded madly and I took this as my cue to rush to the ticket machines while Nikki ushered her Mum towards platform 4. With literally two or three minutes to spare I thrust the tickets into Nikki's hand as she ran down the platform.
As I strolled slowly back to the car trying to collect my jangling nerves, I reflected on the impact of a lost passport. Shirley and Neil only came for 7 days and fully 4 of those days have been affected one way or another by that single, simple, unlucky happenstance. A day searching for it, trying to find out what to do about it, and reporting it lost (which meant we couldn't go to Bakewell); a day at the photo place (admittedly not entirely wasted since there was some additional shopping done) and two days spent travelling to and from London. What a palaver.
And here I was, looking after Neil again. When I returned home he was still sat quietly in the lounge. No-one had told him his papers were already on the dining table waiting for form to be studied and betting strategies calculated. Still, if that's all he had to worry about, he should consider himself lucky, eh? I dropped him off at the bookies around noon and returned home to spend the day chilling out.
Having started on a knife-edge, the day finished as a bit of an anti-climax. Nikki reported back at lunchtime to say they had spent all of 5 minutes in Canada House ("here it is," "thank you very much") and since they had standard single tickets, had caught the next available train back. The 14.05, arriving in Manchester at 16.30. That left me with just enough time to meet Neil for a pint before collecting the girls from the station and returning with them for another. I had to drive everyone home, of course, so neither of them were particularly relaxing pints. Indeed from the knots in my shoulders I'm starting to wonder if I'll ever relax again. I think I need a holiday!
Thursday, September 20, 2007
The longest ride
Had a leisurely start to the day today. I didn't have to be in London until 2pm so I thought I'd have a "normal" start, cup of coffee, take Nikki to work, that kind of thing, and catch whatever train I could get to Piccadilly in time for.
That train turned out to be the 9.15 and a big mistake. It made the day's start a lot more leisurely than I anticipated.
We'd been travelling about an hour (on what is usually a 2-hour-ten-minute trip) when I became conscious that the countryside whipping past my window wasn't countryside I recognised. Almost at the same time this impinged on my senses the train manager came on the PA to announce that, owing to a car on the line (I think he said "car" although it might have been "cow") we'd been diverted on to the West Midlands line and this would add ten minutes to the trip. I went back to my book while one or two passengers called colleagues to let them know they'd be late.
A few minutes later the train came to a standstill. We were somewhere near Nuneaton and this time the PA informed us that several other trains had also been diverted and we were now queued behind four of them. This was expected to add another ten minutes. However, after those ten minutes had passed and we still hadn't moved, a third announcement revealed that one of the four trains had broken down. We were going to have to reverse direction, returning northwards to the previous set of points where we could transfer onto another line. This second diversion was expected to add yet another twenty minutes to the journey time.
Now it was my turn to make a phone call. Even though my meeting was at 2pm, I'd been taking calls all morning trying to set up another meeting for sometime between 12 and 2 and this was clearly not going to be possible.
In the end we pulled into Euston just before 1pm - more than an hour later than scheduled and with only just enough time for me to get to Westminster.
That train turned out to be the 9.15 and a big mistake. It made the day's start a lot more leisurely than I anticipated.
We'd been travelling about an hour (on what is usually a 2-hour-ten-minute trip) when I became conscious that the countryside whipping past my window wasn't countryside I recognised. Almost at the same time this impinged on my senses the train manager came on the PA to announce that, owing to a car on the line (I think he said "car" although it might have been "cow") we'd been diverted on to the West Midlands line and this would add ten minutes to the trip. I went back to my book while one or two passengers called colleagues to let them know they'd be late.
A few minutes later the train came to a standstill. We were somewhere near Nuneaton and this time the PA informed us that several other trains had also been diverted and we were now queued behind four of them. This was expected to add another ten minutes. However, after those ten minutes had passed and we still hadn't moved, a third announcement revealed that one of the four trains had broken down. We were going to have to reverse direction, returning northwards to the previous set of points where we could transfer onto another line. This second diversion was expected to add yet another twenty minutes to the journey time.
Now it was my turn to make a phone call. Even though my meeting was at 2pm, I'd been taking calls all morning trying to set up another meeting for sometime between 12 and 2 and this was clearly not going to be possible.
In the end we pulled into Euston just before 1pm - more than an hour later than scheduled and with only just enough time for me to get to Westminster.
Tuesday, September 04, 2007
Good old British engineering
The Channel Tunnel Rail Link opened today. It links St.Pancras station in London with the UK side of the tunnel.
A marvel of engineering you might think, to allow a train to travel at 186mph, with short bursts of speed over 200mph.
I'm not so excited. The French have had their High-Speed Rail link in place between Paris and the coast since the tunnel opened in 1994, so this "good old British engineering" is only 13 years late. At a cost of almost £6 billion its nett effect is to shave 20 minutes off the journey time between London and Paris.
Is that all? Well worth it. Ah, but, you see you're not looking at the whole picture. Those twenty minutes mean the rail option is now competitive with the flight option, so from the rail company's perspective it really is worth it, since they expect passenger numbers to grow significantly.
Tell that to the commuters in Kent. The HS1 lines pass through the lovely Kent countryside, but they don't actually stop to pick anyone up, so those locals get all the noise and none of the benefit. Well, stopping would reduce the average speed wouldn't it, and defeat the object?
A marvel of engineering you might think, to allow a train to travel at 186mph, with short bursts of speed over 200mph.
I'm not so excited. The French have had their High-Speed Rail link in place between Paris and the coast since the tunnel opened in 1994, so this "good old British engineering" is only 13 years late. At a cost of almost £6 billion its nett effect is to shave 20 minutes off the journey time between London and Paris.
Is that all? Well worth it. Ah, but, you see you're not looking at the whole picture. Those twenty minutes mean the rail option is now competitive with the flight option, so from the rail company's perspective it really is worth it, since they expect passenger numbers to grow significantly.
Tell that to the commuters in Kent. The HS1 lines pass through the lovely Kent countryside, but they don't actually stop to pick anyone up, so those locals get all the noise and none of the benefit. Well, stopping would reduce the average speed wouldn't it, and defeat the object?
Saturday, August 25, 2007
Blenheim & Shipton
Still full from last night's excellent repast, and conscious that our day's destination - Blenheim Palace - might be subjected to a Bank Holiday surge (or should that be siege?) of visitors, we decided to skip breakfast and head straight there.
We arrived just as the gates were opening, but with still almost an hour and a half before the house opened to the public, and an hour before the craft fair got underway. We walked around the house and down to the Bridge of Vanbrugh, a walk which afforded us a magnificent view of the lake and Capability Brown's excellent handiwork in the landscaping of the grounds. 
The air was still and crisp, hinting at the heat of the day to come and in the early morning quiet, the honking of waterfowl on the lake echoed around the hills while a pair of cranes flew low over the island and away to the distant woods.
Over the bridge we walked as far as the Column of Victory and then retraced our steps, conscious of the time. Most of the fair stalls were still setting up, but the local hamster club were already in full swing, sharing their tent with an owl rescue centre that had four different owls on display.
In total the fair occupied about a dozen marquees, each one housing perhaps twenty stalls. They varied from wood turners to jewellery makers, fine art to handmade toys, home made curry sauces (all natural ingredients), through European sausages and Danish pastries to various cheeses, ginger cordial, celtic spirits (whisky, poteen and blackcurrant brandy).
By the time we arrived back at the entry point the Punch and Judy show had finished and a display of ferret racing was in progress. How quintessentially English! The ferrets alternated with a falconry display. Some lovely birds were present today, the smallest of which even though fully grown weighed only 3½ ounces.
Leaving the craft fair for the time being we headed off for the next nearest Blenheim experience - the "Secret Garden." This proved to be a waste of time, apart from the butterfly house. Home to a number of attractive butterflies and this (mam)moth which Nikki wouldn't let me prod in case it took flight. It's about 9 inches across. I have, obviously, included this photo here purely for the delight of those with a moth fetish whom I know are regular readers.
The other good thing about the Secret Garden was that we could catch the miniature railway back to the main house, which was a lark. This brought us to the house itself, which we both agreed was an utter waste of time apart from parts of the Churchill exhibition. Most of the house is closed to the public (although you can volunteer to be ripped off again to be allowed access to the Duke's "private apartments"), they have a 19th century policy on photography (it's banned; forcing you to buy the cheesy postcards of the interior) , and compared to Chatsworth the interior is nothing to write home about. They do, however, take many more opportunities during the tour of the house and gardens to guide you obtrusively through the many gift shops.
Having been diverted into the one-way-in-and-the-same-way-out garden and spent a frustrating 30 minutes trying to find an alternative exit, we concurred that if it hadn't been for the craft fair the day at Blenheim would have been a real let-down.
Returning to pick up our cheeses, some sausage, three bottles of ginger cordial and a bottle of apple and blackcurrant brandy, I chanced another walk past the wonderful surrealist oil painting of a sailing dinghy done with half-a-dozen masterstrokes of a palette knife. I was still strong enough to resist its charms, but if I'd had five hundred quid in my pocket I could easily have spent it. In fact I could probably have spent a couple of grand - some of the hand-made wooden artefacts were simply stunning and there were numerous other needful things begging to be bought.
We left Blenheim at 3pm, the sun still blazing, and returned to Shipton where the village summer fete was in full swing on the green. The top of the field was occupied by the biggest bouncy castle-cum-inflatable climbing frame I've ever seen and all around the green were stalls manned by locals selling the usual homemade cakes, jams, and contents of boxes from under children's beds. Attention was centred however on the makeshift racetrack in the middle of the field, bounded by bales of hay for spectators to sit upon, where a sack race was just finishing. This was followed by two rounds of an egg-throwing contest where partners faced each other 3 yards apart, each taking a step back upon successful completion of a throw and a catch without dropping, or breaking, their fresh egg.
Needless to say several contestants ended up somewhat eggier than they began, as did a few spectators who unfortunately found themselves under a failing catch.
Once around the field was enough for us, fun as it was, and we retired to the hotel for a (small!) meal and an early night.
We arrived just as the gates were opening, but with still almost an hour and a half before the house opened to the public, and an hour before the craft fair got underway. We walked around the house and down to the Bridge of Vanbrugh, a walk which afforded us a magnificent view of the lake and Capability Brown's excellent handiwork in the landscaping of the grounds. The air was still and crisp, hinting at the heat of the day to come and in the early morning quiet, the honking of waterfowl on the lake echoed around the hills while a pair of cranes flew low over the island and away to the distant woods.Over the bridge we walked as far as the Column of Victory and then retraced our steps, conscious of the time. Most of the fair stalls were still setting up, but the local hamster club were already in full swing, sharing their tent with an owl rescue centre that had four different owls on display.In total the fair occupied about a dozen marquees, each one housing perhaps twenty stalls. They varied from wood turners to jewellery makers, fine art to handmade toys, home made curry sauces (all natural ingredients), through European sausages and Danish pastries to various cheeses, ginger cordial, celtic spirits (whisky, poteen and blackcurrant brandy).
By the time we arrived back at the entry point the Punch and Judy show had finished and a display of ferret racing was in progress. How quintessentially English! The ferrets alternated with a falconry display. Some lovely birds were present today, the smallest of which even though fully grown weighed only 3½ ounces.Leaving the craft fair for the time being we headed off for the next nearest Blenheim experience - the "Secret Garden." This proved to be a waste of time, apart from the butterfly house. Home to a number of attractive butterflies and this (mam)moth which Nikki wouldn't let me prod in case it took flight. It's about 9 inches across. I have, obviously, included this photo here purely for the delight of those with a moth fetish whom I know are regular readers.The other good thing about the Secret Garden was that we could catch the miniature railway back to the main house, which was a lark. This brought us to the house itself, which we both agreed was an utter waste of time apart from parts of the Churchill exhibition. Most of the house is closed to the public (although you can volunteer to be ripped off again to be allowed access to the Duke's "private apartments"), they have a 19th century policy on photography (it's banned; forcing you to buy the cheesy postcards of the interior) , and compared to Chatsworth the interior is nothing to write home about. They do, however, take many more opportunities during the tour of the house and gardens to guide you obtrusively through the many gift shops.
Having been diverted into the one-way-in-and-the-same-way-out garden and spent a frustrating 30 minutes trying to find an alternative exit, we concurred that if it hadn't been for the craft fair the day at Blenheim would have been a real let-down.
Returning to pick up our cheeses, some sausage, three bottles of ginger cordial and a bottle of apple and blackcurrant brandy, I chanced another walk past the wonderful surrealist oil painting of a sailing dinghy done with half-a-dozen masterstrokes of a palette knife. I was still strong enough to resist its charms, but if I'd had five hundred quid in my pocket I could easily have spent it. In fact I could probably have spent a couple of grand - some of the hand-made wooden artefacts were simply stunning and there were numerous other needful things begging to be bought.
We left Blenheim at 3pm, the sun still blazing, and returned to Shipton where the village summer fete was in full swing on the green. The top of the field was occupied by the biggest bouncy castle-cum-inflatable climbing frame I've ever seen and all around the green were stalls manned by locals selling the usual homemade cakes, jams, and contents of boxes from under children's beds. Attention was centred however on the makeshift racetrack in the middle of the field, bounded by bales of hay for spectators to sit upon, where a sack race was just finishing. This was followed by two rounds of an egg-throwing contest where partners faced each other 3 yards apart, each taking a step back upon successful completion of a throw and a catch without dropping, or breaking, their fresh egg.Needless to say several contestants ended up somewhat eggier than they began, as did a few spectators who unfortunately found themselves under a failing catch.
Once around the field was enough for us, fun as it was, and we retired to the hotel for a (small!) meal and an early night.
Wednesday, June 13, 2007
Snaking over the Snake
I've been working in Sheffield a lot since returning from leave. After a week, I got bored with using the train. I was never a train person to begin with, but I've been converted to the benefits over long distances. Sheffield's pretty local though, so this week I thought I'd give driving another chance.
What brought me to this conclusion was the time it was taking on the train. Ten minutes to drive to the station and park, a half-hour wait for a train, something like a 55 minute journey and another 5 minute walk at the other end. About 1 hour 40 all told. I was convinced driving would be quicker *and* more convenient.
So Monday morning I set off, dropped Nikki at work around 8.20 and headed round the M60 to the M67. I expected the main queues to be coming the other way - into Manchester - so I wasn't prepared for the slow traffic heading into Glossop, or the long line of cars stuck behind the articulated lorry which was negotiating the Woodhead Road on its way to the M1. I didn't have an opportunity to pass it until after the Flouch roundabout and by then it was only 5 minutes or so before I hit the tail-end of the rush-hour traffic heading into Sheffield.
Not only was the journey painfully slow, I found the closest car park to the office was a 15 minute walk away. I was not best pleased when I finally arrived at my desk at 10.40. Total journey time 2 hours 20: a full half an hour longer than the train and about a hundred times more stressful.
I couldn't even claim to be saving the company any money doing the journey that way. The car park in Sheffield is almost as expensive as the station car park in Manchester, and the train ticket only a pound more than the mileage allowance.
I decided Monday would be my last journey by car, but going home I took the more scenic route via the Snake Pass and Ladybower reservoir. The road was much quieter going back and the journey only a few minutes longer than the train. My morning determination was swayed by the easier return journey and I made up my mind to try again one more time, using the Snake Pass both ways.
I needn't have bothered. Once again the Glossop-bound traffic snarled up the M67 interchange and once I'd cleared Glossop I found I was stuck again behind a slow-moving lorry, this time with NO passing places. The journey over to Sheffield this morning was marginally better than Monday at 1 hour 55, but still no contest with the train. Added to that, with the research into the timetable that Nikki has done, I can now arrive at the station either end minutes before the train departs, so the door-to-door journey by train has been shortened to about 1 hour 20 minutes.
What brought me to this conclusion was the time it was taking on the train. Ten minutes to drive to the station and park, a half-hour wait for a train, something like a 55 minute journey and another 5 minute walk at the other end. About 1 hour 40 all told. I was convinced driving would be quicker *and* more convenient.
So Monday morning I set off, dropped Nikki at work around 8.20 and headed round the M60 to the M67. I expected the main queues to be coming the other way - into Manchester - so I wasn't prepared for the slow traffic heading into Glossop, or the long line of cars stuck behind the articulated lorry which was negotiating the Woodhead Road on its way to the M1. I didn't have an opportunity to pass it until after the Flouch roundabout and by then it was only 5 minutes or so before I hit the tail-end of the rush-hour traffic heading into Sheffield.
Not only was the journey painfully slow, I found the closest car park to the office was a 15 minute walk away. I was not best pleased when I finally arrived at my desk at 10.40. Total journey time 2 hours 20: a full half an hour longer than the train and about a hundred times more stressful.
I couldn't even claim to be saving the company any money doing the journey that way. The car park in Sheffield is almost as expensive as the station car park in Manchester, and the train ticket only a pound more than the mileage allowance.
I decided Monday would be my last journey by car, but going home I took the more scenic route via the Snake Pass and Ladybower reservoir. The road was much quieter going back and the journey only a few minutes longer than the train. My morning determination was swayed by the easier return journey and I made up my mind to try again one more time, using the Snake Pass both ways.I needn't have bothered. Once again the Glossop-bound traffic snarled up the M67 interchange and once I'd cleared Glossop I found I was stuck again behind a slow-moving lorry, this time with NO passing places. The journey over to Sheffield this morning was marginally better than Monday at 1 hour 55, but still no contest with the train. Added to that, with the research into the timetable that Nikki has done, I can now arrive at the station either end minutes before the train departs, so the door-to-door journey by train has been shortened to about 1 hour 20 minutes.
Tuesday, May 15, 2007
Lift your arms!
It never fails to surprise me how linear people can be. Like when they come up against a door marked "Pull" they'll always pull it, even if it's lodged ajar so it's clear it swings both ways, and it would be much easier to push it. Or encountering double doors where there's a group of people struggling to get through just one side, they'll never think of opening the other side to allow everyone through more quickly.
I was reminded of this on the 7.05 to Euston this morning (yes! Again!) when a young guy embarked at Stockport and tried to sit down next to me. He was hampered both by his large flight-case-style briefcase and the fact that the arm of the chair on the aisle side was in the down position. He contorted himself to climb over the arm, repeated the manoeuvre in reverse to stow his coat in the overhead rack and then again to sit back down.
What do you say? It's easy to come over a bit patronising in these circumstances, but how can he not have noticed that the arms are hinged, and can be lifted back into an upright position, allowing unfettered ingress and egress.
I took pity on him. "That's a lot easier if you lift the arm up," I said in my most earnest and non-patronising voice. I think he appreciated my help. Especially when, a couple of minutes later, I had to ask him to stand up again so I could get to the shop for a spot of breakfast.
I was reminded of this on the 7.05 to Euston this morning (yes! Again!) when a young guy embarked at Stockport and tried to sit down next to me. He was hampered both by his large flight-case-style briefcase and the fact that the arm of the chair on the aisle side was in the down position. He contorted himself to climb over the arm, repeated the manoeuvre in reverse to stow his coat in the overhead rack and then again to sit back down.
What do you say? It's easy to come over a bit patronising in these circumstances, but how can he not have noticed that the arms are hinged, and can be lifted back into an upright position, allowing unfettered ingress and egress.
I took pity on him. "That's a lot easier if you lift the arm up," I said in my most earnest and non-patronising voice. I think he appreciated my help. Especially when, a couple of minutes later, I had to ask him to stand up again so I could get to the shop for a spot of breakfast.
Wednesday, April 25, 2007
The early train
The second 5.20am train of the week and I'm beginning to wonder what I've done to deserve this. With my innate desire never to be late for anything, I always book a taxi for 4.45, it always turns up five minutes early and so I arrive at Piccadilly a full 30 minutes before the train is scheduled to depart.
As I stand on the platform, staring at the door button for coach B waiting for it to be activated and let me on to the train, I ponder the benefit of the potential extra twenty minutes I could have stayed in bed, and try to calculate how much of my life I've wasted standing on platforms staring at door buttons or timetable displays.
Virgin have "passenger control" down to a fine art. At Euston, we're held on the concourse until about 8 minutes before the train leaves, the sign displaying only "Being Prepared" instead of a platform number. Every other service displays a platform number except the train to Manchester. I asked the hapless Virgin staffer about this once and was politely told it was because Euston didn't guarantee a platform to the arriving Manchester trains so they didn't know in advance where it would be.
This is blatant gobshite. The Manchester-London service runs every half hour and there is always one in when the next one arrives, so each train must arrive anything up to an hour before it has to be ready to depart. Easily long enough to clean and prepare it for the return journey and allow passengers to take their seats at their leisure, rather than via the mad scramble that ensues when the platform is *finally* revealed 8 minutes before departure.
At Piccadilly thecrowd passenger control is much simpler. They announce the platform but keep the train locked until 5 minutes before it leaves. Small queues build up outside every door and, as I'm always half-an-hour early, I'm always at the front of the one outside the forward door to coach B. Staring at the button.
When we finally set off the train manager is very keen to check tickets. Most mornings this doesn't happen until well past Stockport, but today he's spotted some dodgy looking characters and he's on the ball. Sure enough, they don't have valid tickets.
"That's a saver ticket and it's not valid on this train unless it's been bought on a Railcard"
"I didn't know"
"Well that's why I announced it before we left Manchester, and you were awake"
"How do you know I was awake?"
"Because you walked on to the train"
"Well I've got a Railcard anyway"
"Can I see it?"
"I haven't got it with me"
"That's OK, but you had to buy the ticket with it. If you haven't got it with you, you couldn't have bought the ticket with it, so it's an invalid ticket for this journey. You'll have to get off at Stockport and wait for an off-peak train after 8.30"
"Can't you give me a break?"
"I can give you a bill - standard single fare is £109 - or you can leave the train"
Stockport is only about 8-10 minutes from Piccadilly by train so it wasn't long after the train manager had left the vicinity (to mumbles of "Jobsworth" and "yeah, call the transport police, what do I care?" from the annoyed party) that we pulled into the station. No-one left the train and we set off again. A little while later the manager was back having consulted with his controller by radio. He asked the guy once more whether he was going to purchase a ticket and, faced with the reality of being handed over to the transport police at Wilmslow, he coughed up the difference between his saver ticket and a full fare - about £79.
The ticketing system is a lot simpler than it was, but is still arcane to an occasional traveller, and even though the various ramifications are explained over the PA system prior to departure it's easy to miss the finer points if you're a novice. A little while ago Virgin changed their policy so that saver tickets and various other kinds could not be purchased on board. The only ticket they will sell you on a train is a standard single fare. With every train manager being equipped with a mobile computerised ticket machine, this is another blatant rip-off. They could easily sell the cheapest valid ticket for the route, but choose not to, thus maximising their profits at the expense of the unwary, inexperienced, or anyone who has caught the train in a hurry. Hardly an incentive to start to use the trains if you're not a regular.
As I stand on the platform, staring at the door button for coach B waiting for it to be activated and let me on to the train, I ponder the benefit of the potential extra twenty minutes I could have stayed in bed, and try to calculate how much of my life I've wasted standing on platforms staring at door buttons or timetable displays.
Virgin have "passenger control" down to a fine art. At Euston, we're held on the concourse until about 8 minutes before the train leaves, the sign displaying only "Being Prepared" instead of a platform number. Every other service displays a platform number except the train to Manchester. I asked the hapless Virgin staffer about this once and was politely told it was because Euston didn't guarantee a platform to the arriving Manchester trains so they didn't know in advance where it would be.
This is blatant gobshite. The Manchester-London service runs every half hour and there is always one in when the next one arrives, so each train must arrive anything up to an hour before it has to be ready to depart. Easily long enough to clean and prepare it for the return journey and allow passengers to take their seats at their leisure, rather than via the mad scramble that ensues when the platform is *finally* revealed 8 minutes before departure.
At Piccadilly the
When we finally set off the train manager is very keen to check tickets. Most mornings this doesn't happen until well past Stockport, but today he's spotted some dodgy looking characters and he's on the ball. Sure enough, they don't have valid tickets.
"That's a saver ticket and it's not valid on this train unless it's been bought on a Railcard"
"I didn't know"
"Well that's why I announced it before we left Manchester, and you were awake"
"How do you know I was awake?"
"Because you walked on to the train"
"Well I've got a Railcard anyway"
"Can I see it?"
"I haven't got it with me"
"That's OK, but you had to buy the ticket with it. If you haven't got it with you, you couldn't have bought the ticket with it, so it's an invalid ticket for this journey. You'll have to get off at Stockport and wait for an off-peak train after 8.30"
"Can't you give me a break?"
"I can give you a bill - standard single fare is £109 - or you can leave the train"
Stockport is only about 8-10 minutes from Piccadilly by train so it wasn't long after the train manager had left the vicinity (to mumbles of "Jobsworth" and "yeah, call the transport police, what do I care?" from the annoyed party) that we pulled into the station. No-one left the train and we set off again. A little while later the manager was back having consulted with his controller by radio. He asked the guy once more whether he was going to purchase a ticket and, faced with the reality of being handed over to the transport police at Wilmslow, he coughed up the difference between his saver ticket and a full fare - about £79.
The ticketing system is a lot simpler than it was, but is still arcane to an occasional traveller, and even though the various ramifications are explained over the PA system prior to departure it's easy to miss the finer points if you're a novice. A little while ago Virgin changed their policy so that saver tickets and various other kinds could not be purchased on board. The only ticket they will sell you on a train is a standard single fare. With every train manager being equipped with a mobile computerised ticket machine, this is another blatant rip-off. They could easily sell the cheapest valid ticket for the route, but choose not to, thus maximising their profits at the expense of the unwary, inexperienced, or anyone who has caught the train in a hurry. Hardly an incentive to start to use the trains if you're not a regular.
Wednesday, April 04, 2007
Transports of delight
Transport has been in the news a lot recently, whether it be the proposals for Manchester to introduce congestion charging, or the government's barmy road pricing and tracking scheme, the petition against which garnered over 1.8 million signatures by the time it closed on 20 February.
We hear a lot about how we "can't do nothing." Indeed my own personal response to the petition from the Prime Minister himself (*koff*) said as much. It also raised a number of spectres designed to make me fear that I didn't understand the issue and that nice Mr Blair does, or that any worries I might have about the government really wanting to track me wherever I go are totally unfounded because, of course, "road pricing is about tackling congestion." Right. So if that's the case, why do the government's plans steadfastly ignore many of the easier, simpler and most important of all less invasive ways of tackling congestion? Could it be, as a member of the opposition suggested on the radio a few weeks ago, that it's because these easier and simpler schemes are "boring" and not nearly headline-grabbing enough for this media-conscious government.
All governments to a greater or lesser extent suffer from short-termism. That special model of political blinkers that only allows UK governments to think about the next five years, and preferably things that will show demonstrable results within five years so they can go back to the polls waving their flags of success and achievement and beg the UK electorate for another go on the rollercoaster ride of power they love so much.
They gaze with envy at the transport systems of countries like Japan, or even France, where railways run smoothly and efficiently, and are used by a large percentage of the population. Indeed France is in the news again at the moment after yesterday breaking the world speed record with this rather sleek looking TGV train - the V150 - which sped down a new track at a blood-draining 357mph (574kph). But these systems didn't materialise overnight, or even within a single five-year period. They are the result of long-term investment programs lasting twenty or thirty years, or even longer. The MD of the French railway appeared on last night's PM programme and was asked how France could achieve this while Britain's railways creak and groan along at a maximum of 98mph? His answer underlines my point: France have been investing in TGV trains for over 25 years. Since 1981 in fact.
But expensive long-term investments like this are only part of the story. So much more could be achieved with much simpler initiatives. In Manchester at the moment, the schools are on their Easter break. The effect of this on rush-hour congestion is staggering, and instantaneous. A few initiatives aimed at prolonging the "half-term effect" would go a long way:
When I worked in Greece a few years ago, I was impressed with their scheme for allowing taxi sharing. Basically a cabbie can pick up as many people as he has room for, provided all travellers are going in roughly the same direction. Their meters are capable of recording multiple journeys so each passenger pays only for his or her own journey, together with a small discount for the period in which the cab is shared. Introducing this scheme in the UK could reduce the number of taxis on the roads dramatically.
Finally more efficient policing and tracking of criminals and tax evaders could help cut congestion. It is estimated there are 2 million illegal cars on the roads. Removing these would reduce traffic by almost 7% at a stroke. Add to that road tax and insurance fraudsters and the figure could reach 10%.
And yet any and all of these initiatives are discounted by this bankrupt government in favour of congestion charging and schemes to collect all revenue through petrol duty, which have a disproportionate effect on the poor, on countryside dwellers who have to use their cars more, and on businesses, putting up prices for everyone.
We hear a lot about how we "can't do nothing." Indeed my own personal response to the petition from the Prime Minister himself (*koff*) said as much. It also raised a number of spectres designed to make me fear that I didn't understand the issue and that nice Mr Blair does, or that any worries I might have about the government really wanting to track me wherever I go are totally unfounded because, of course, "road pricing is about tackling congestion." Right. So if that's the case, why do the government's plans steadfastly ignore many of the easier, simpler and most important of all less invasive ways of tackling congestion? Could it be, as a member of the opposition suggested on the radio a few weeks ago, that it's because these easier and simpler schemes are "boring" and not nearly headline-grabbing enough for this media-conscious government.
All governments to a greater or lesser extent suffer from short-termism. That special model of political blinkers that only allows UK governments to think about the next five years, and preferably things that will show demonstrable results within five years so they can go back to the polls waving their flags of success and achievement and beg the UK electorate for another go on the rollercoaster ride of power they love so much.
They gaze with envy at the transport systems of countries like Japan, or even France, where railways run smoothly and efficiently, and are used by a large percentage of the population. Indeed France is in the news again at the moment after yesterday breaking the world speed record with this rather sleek looking TGV train - the V150 - which sped down a new track at a blood-draining 357mph (574kph). But these systems didn't materialise overnight, or even within a single five-year period. They are the result of long-term investment programs lasting twenty or thirty years, or even longer. The MD of the French railway appeared on last night's PM programme and was asked how France could achieve this while Britain's railways creak and groan along at a maximum of 98mph? His answer underlines my point: France have been investing in TGV trains for over 25 years. Since 1981 in fact.But expensive long-term investments like this are only part of the story. So much more could be achieved with much simpler initiatives. In Manchester at the moment, the schools are on their Easter break. The effect of this on rush-hour congestion is staggering, and instantaneous. A few initiatives aimed at prolonging the "half-term effect" would go a long way:
- staggered start times for schools in a given area;
- the introduction of school buses that work so well in other countries (both on traffic levels and pupil safety);
- the banning of cars from dropping off passengers within a mile of schools
- Permanent park-and-ride schemes - not just at Christmas;
- Staggered start times for offices, to match those for schools
- Incentives for car sharing (or disincentives for single occupancy vehicles)
- Incentives for people to work at home (perhaps at the corporate level)
When I worked in Greece a few years ago, I was impressed with their scheme for allowing taxi sharing. Basically a cabbie can pick up as many people as he has room for, provided all travellers are going in roughly the same direction. Their meters are capable of recording multiple journeys so each passenger pays only for his or her own journey, together with a small discount for the period in which the cab is shared. Introducing this scheme in the UK could reduce the number of taxis on the roads dramatically.
Finally more efficient policing and tracking of criminals and tax evaders could help cut congestion. It is estimated there are 2 million illegal cars on the roads. Removing these would reduce traffic by almost 7% at a stroke. Add to that road tax and insurance fraudsters and the figure could reach 10%.
And yet any and all of these initiatives are discounted by this bankrupt government in favour of congestion charging and schemes to collect all revenue through petrol duty, which have a disproportionate effect on the poor, on countryside dwellers who have to use their cars more, and on businesses, putting up prices for everyone.
Thursday, March 01, 2007
Can I have a nice cup of tea?
This starts life as yet another train blog, but don't worry. It doesn't stay there for long. Only long enough to gain inspiration.
I had to travel to London again today and had just bought my breakfast sandwich and large black coffee from the Virgin train "shop" when the chap behind me placed his order.
"Can I just have a nice cup of tea, please?"
Two things about that you have to admire. The pure Englishness of it. Not just "tea please," but a nice cup of tea. And the naive hope that Virgin Rail can brew a nice cup of tea, when their drinks machines don't dispense boiling water.
There. Right there is my inspiration. I was reminded of a fight I had with the corporate mentality a little over two years ago, when they removed kettles from the kitchen areas throughout the office and we were unable any longer to make tea for ourselves. Their excuse was that there were "just too many industrial accidents" involving kettles. I think what sparked it off was a woman in Bracknell scalding herself.
I'd been used to brewing myself a small one-person pot of tea. It was ideal for me - it filled two mugs, it had its own little tea-cosy and it meant that I didn't have to be up and down to the machine every ten minutes. Most importantly of course, it was real tea, not the execrable machine version. It was drinkable.
So when "my" kettle was taken away, I played up a bit. I pointed out that everyone has a kettle at home, everyone in the workplace was an adult and should be trusted to use it safely, and if they didn't it was their own fault. Naturally, in this increasingly mad, politically correct and litigious world, this argument cut no ice with the facilities management people. If they provided the "kettle facility" they could possibly be liable if someone damaged themselves using it. Not to mention the cost of having the equipment safety checked every year.
It was clear I wasn't going to win the argument that way, so I tried a different tack. One of the arguments for there being "no need" for kettles was that the drinks machines could dispense hot water. In common with the other machine drinks, this was free, so the FM people couldn't see that there was any reduction in facility. But that was exactly the problem. The machines dispensed hot water. Not boiling water. The tea I tried to brew with it was disgusting. I complained, and in an effort to prove the water was hot enough, they reconfigured the drinks machine display to show the temperature of the water being delivered. It was 94°C.
I did my research, and found several reference sites on the web dedicated to making the ideal brew. Without exception they all made it abundantly clear that water at boiling point was essential to brewing a proper cuppa. I complained again, citing references. I think they were starting to get a little hacked off that I wasn't satisfied with their arguments, so as an ameliorating tactic they agreed to increase the temperature of the water from the machine. But the in-built safety or other limitations meant they couldn't get it above 97°C.
Ironically, this is still not hot enough to brew proper tea, but it's too hot to comfortably carry the plastic cups into which the other drinks were dispensed. On top of that, to fill my little teapot required 3.5 hot water dispensings, so I either had to overflow the pot, or not fill it, and whichever approach I took, I occupied the machine at least three times longer than for a regular drink, which meant longer queues.
So what started off as ostensibly a health-and-safety change, but was really about cutting costs, had now resulted in everyone who used the drinks machine being unable safely to carry their drinks, and me spending much more valuable work time brewing tea which was nowhere near as nice as it should be.
But with large companies it's never about maintaining a happy and contented workforce. It's about sweating assets and minimising costs. It's always about profit. And the maximum profit depends on keeping your staff at a level of disgruntlement below that which will cause them to leave, but above that which providing an adequate (but more costly) office environment would allow. So we soldier on, always with this background feeling that things could be better, should be better, but knowing in some fatalistic way that they never will be. And it's not worth changing jobs because it will be just as bad, and possibly even worse, at the next place.
I had to travel to London again today and had just bought my breakfast sandwich and large black coffee from the Virgin train "shop" when the chap behind me placed his order.
"Can I just have a nice cup of tea, please?"
Two things about that you have to admire. The pure Englishness of it. Not just "tea please," but a nice cup of tea. And the naive hope that Virgin Rail can brew a nice cup of tea, when their drinks machines don't dispense boiling water.
There. Right there is my inspiration. I was reminded of a fight I had with the corporate mentality a little over two years ago, when they removed kettles from the kitchen areas throughout the office and we were unable any longer to make tea for ourselves. Their excuse was that there were "just too many industrial accidents" involving kettles. I think what sparked it off was a woman in Bracknell scalding herself.
I'd been used to brewing myself a small one-person pot of tea. It was ideal for me - it filled two mugs, it had its own little tea-cosy and it meant that I didn't have to be up and down to the machine every ten minutes. Most importantly of course, it was real tea, not the execrable machine version. It was drinkable.
So when "my" kettle was taken away, I played up a bit. I pointed out that everyone has a kettle at home, everyone in the workplace was an adult and should be trusted to use it safely, and if they didn't it was their own fault. Naturally, in this increasingly mad, politically correct and litigious world, this argument cut no ice with the facilities management people. If they provided the "kettle facility" they could possibly be liable if someone damaged themselves using it. Not to mention the cost of having the equipment safety checked every year.
It was clear I wasn't going to win the argument that way, so I tried a different tack. One of the arguments for there being "no need" for kettles was that the drinks machines could dispense hot water. In common with the other machine drinks, this was free, so the FM people couldn't see that there was any reduction in facility. But that was exactly the problem. The machines dispensed hot water. Not boiling water. The tea I tried to brew with it was disgusting. I complained, and in an effort to prove the water was hot enough, they reconfigured the drinks machine display to show the temperature of the water being delivered. It was 94°C.
I did my research, and found several reference sites on the web dedicated to making the ideal brew. Without exception they all made it abundantly clear that water at boiling point was essential to brewing a proper cuppa. I complained again, citing references. I think they were starting to get a little hacked off that I wasn't satisfied with their arguments, so as an ameliorating tactic they agreed to increase the temperature of the water from the machine. But the in-built safety or other limitations meant they couldn't get it above 97°C.
Ironically, this is still not hot enough to brew proper tea, but it's too hot to comfortably carry the plastic cups into which the other drinks were dispensed. On top of that, to fill my little teapot required 3.5 hot water dispensings, so I either had to overflow the pot, or not fill it, and whichever approach I took, I occupied the machine at least three times longer than for a regular drink, which meant longer queues.
So what started off as ostensibly a health-and-safety change, but was really about cutting costs, had now resulted in everyone who used the drinks machine being unable safely to carry their drinks, and me spending much more valuable work time brewing tea which was nowhere near as nice as it should be.
But with large companies it's never about maintaining a happy and contented workforce. It's about sweating assets and minimising costs. It's always about profit. And the maximum profit depends on keeping your staff at a level of disgruntlement below that which will cause them to leave, but above that which providing an adequate (but more costly) office environment would allow. So we soldier on, always with this background feeling that things could be better, should be better, but knowing in some fatalistic way that they never will be. And it's not worth changing jobs because it will be just as bad, and possibly even worse, at the next place.
Tuesday, February 27, 2007
Lessons not learned AGAIN
The interim report into the recent train crash in Cumbria has revealed that the derailment was caused by a set of points that were in an appalling state of repair.
Points have to cope with incredible loads. They have to hold a movable section of track (the section that allows the train to go one way or another depending how the points are set) rigid under the weight of several hundred tons of train. Virgin Pendalino trains, like the one which crashed (and, worryingly, like the ones I travel to London on), can travel at up to 125mph, although the line speed for this area was 95mph according to reports.
Points are designed to cope with the immense forces acting on them using 'stretcher bars' to hold the rails in place. An inspection showed that on this set of points one stretcher bar was missing altogether, one was loose, with its nuts lying nearby, and a third was fractured. Because of this, the rails were not held in place as the train passed over the points, and it derailed.
The report also reveals that an inspection of the points, due 5 days earlier, had not been completed. So here we are again. This is effectively the same story as the Bernard Mathews turkey farm and the recent child abuse case, only this time someone died. It's a boring job, I imagine, walking lengths of track examining one set of points after another for damage, wear and tear, or loose nuts. You're examining them to a schedule imposed by someone outside, for reasons you're probably not aware of, and most of the time - probably 99% of the time - there's nothing wrong with the points. Why do they need to be checked so regularly, you wonder, when there's "never anything wrong with them?" Complacency creeps in. You finish early on a Friday - no need to check that last two miles of track. They'll be OK 'til next time, or the time after that.
But engineering works such as railways are no respecter of boredom, complacency or clocking off early. Metal fatigue works to its own timetable. Vibration loosening of nuts is unpredictable and has deadly consequences. Inspections are scheduled so that problems are detected early, and after the Potters Bar crash five years ago where the cause was virtually identical, the schedules were tightened up.
Network Rail are now busy checking thousands of points across the UK. The words "stable door" and "bolted" come to mind. Ironically, over the next few days and weeks, rail travel in the UK will probably reach levels of safety previously undreamt of, as points are scrutinised and Network Rail try to prove they are on the ball. But once again, as before, this is a failure of process. If the engineers at the bottom of the corporate pile - those who actually do the track walking - can't be relied upon to follow the schedules, then a more rigorous system of checks and sign-offs should be introduced. But that's only half the battle. Above all, when travellers' safety - no, lives! - are at stake, what's needed is an old-fashioned sense of pride in one's work. For engineers to be able to stick their chests out and say "there's no loose points on MY section of track!" and get some recognition that their job might be boring and monotonous, but it's nonetheless essential and they are doing it right, every time.
Points have to cope with incredible loads. They have to hold a movable section of track (the section that allows the train to go one way or another depending how the points are set) rigid under the weight of several hundred tons of train. Virgin Pendalino trains, like the one which crashed (and, worryingly, like the ones I travel to London on), can travel at up to 125mph, although the line speed for this area was 95mph according to reports.Points are designed to cope with the immense forces acting on them using 'stretcher bars' to hold the rails in place. An inspection showed that on this set of points one stretcher bar was missing altogether, one was loose, with its nuts lying nearby, and a third was fractured. Because of this, the rails were not held in place as the train passed over the points, and it derailed.
The report also reveals that an inspection of the points, due 5 days earlier, had not been completed. So here we are again. This is effectively the same story as the Bernard Mathews turkey farm and the recent child abuse case, only this time someone died. It's a boring job, I imagine, walking lengths of track examining one set of points after another for damage, wear and tear, or loose nuts. You're examining them to a schedule imposed by someone outside, for reasons you're probably not aware of, and most of the time - probably 99% of the time - there's nothing wrong with the points. Why do they need to be checked so regularly, you wonder, when there's "never anything wrong with them?" Complacency creeps in. You finish early on a Friday - no need to check that last two miles of track. They'll be OK 'til next time, or the time after that.
But engineering works such as railways are no respecter of boredom, complacency or clocking off early. Metal fatigue works to its own timetable. Vibration loosening of nuts is unpredictable and has deadly consequences. Inspections are scheduled so that problems are detected early, and after the Potters Bar crash five years ago where the cause was virtually identical, the schedules were tightened up.
Network Rail are now busy checking thousands of points across the UK. The words "stable door" and "bolted" come to mind. Ironically, over the next few days and weeks, rail travel in the UK will probably reach levels of safety previously undreamt of, as points are scrutinised and Network Rail try to prove they are on the ball. But once again, as before, this is a failure of process. If the engineers at the bottom of the corporate pile - those who actually do the track walking - can't be relied upon to follow the schedules, then a more rigorous system of checks and sign-offs should be introduced. But that's only half the battle. Above all, when travellers' safety - no, lives! - are at stake, what's needed is an old-fashioned sense of pride in one's work. For engineers to be able to stick their chests out and say "there's no loose points on MY section of track!" and get some recognition that their job might be boring and monotonous, but it's nonetheless essential and they are doing it right, every time.
Thursday, February 15, 2007
Home!
Well it's dark, late and I'm tired and hungry (by the time I got to the train shop all the sandwiches were gone) but at least I'm home! I love travelling on the train (wry smile).
Actually, it's not bad. For years I avoided train travel, thinking I much preferred to be in control. I drove everywhere. Then I started to realise it was becoming a real pain to get into London, something I was having to do more and more often. I actually used to drive down to one of the outlying tube stations (Hatton Cross, to be precise, just round the corner from Heathrow) and catch the Piccadilly Line into the centre. If you included driving time, rest stops, train waits, etc it used to take me around 5 hours to get from home to anywhere in Westminster.
When I finally woke up to how mad that was and started taking the Virgin service from Manchester to Euston I cut my journey time by about 2 hours and I had chance to work, or write, or read a book. Amazing. For someone with an allegedly high IQ I can't defend how long it took me to come round to the benefits of letting the train take the strain.
Plus there's the added bonus of the amusing announcements from the train manager. Today's was: "The Quiet Zone is located in coaches A and H. These coaches are the Quiet Zone and must...remain quiet."
Actually, it's not bad. For years I avoided train travel, thinking I much preferred to be in control. I drove everywhere. Then I started to realise it was becoming a real pain to get into London, something I was having to do more and more often. I actually used to drive down to one of the outlying tube stations (Hatton Cross, to be precise, just round the corner from Heathrow) and catch the Piccadilly Line into the centre. If you included driving time, rest stops, train waits, etc it used to take me around 5 hours to get from home to anywhere in Westminster.
When I finally woke up to how mad that was and started taking the Virgin service from Manchester to Euston I cut my journey time by about 2 hours and I had chance to work, or write, or read a book. Amazing. For someone with an allegedly high IQ I can't defend how long it took me to come round to the benefits of letting the train take the strain.
Plus there's the added bonus of the amusing announcements from the train manager. Today's was: "The Quiet Zone is located in coaches A and H. These coaches are the Quiet Zone and must...remain quiet."
Thursday, February 08, 2007
A bad day for travelling back
You'll remember the "fun" I had getting down to Euston yesterday morning. I thought I'd struck lucky with the return journey though. My rescheduled 3pm meeting finished earlier than expected and I arrived at Euston in time to catch the 4.35. Woohoo! I should have realised that my original title was going to hold true for the whole day.
Prior to departure the train manager announced that, in common with other trains today, we would be diverting via Stafford and Crewe on the way back (the 4.35 normally only calls at Macclesfield, Stoke-on-Trent and Stockport) owing to a gas leak in the Macclesfield area. The train was still expected to meet all of its normal arrival times though, so everything still looked pretty good. Except for those travelling to Macc and Stoke of course, who were now going to have to change at Stafford onto a local service.
Laptop deployed as before, game of Spider Solitaire successfully concluded, I noticed that 4.35 had come and gone and there was no sign of movement. After a few minutes the tannoy crackled into life once more to apologise for the delay in departure which was caused by a fault on an external door. It refused to close properly, with the result that the automated system wouldn't give the driver the all-clear to leave, or release the computerised lock on the brakes. An engineer was, we were told, on his way...
We finally departed Euston at 4.55 and delays en-route meant we were a full 30 minutes late back to Piccadilly. I guess it could have been worse. I could have been travelling today and incurred the snow-instigated delays. We don't normally deal with snow very well in this country. Public services are disrupted out of all proportion to the amount of snow, and most drivers take one look at a white pavement and engage overcautious mode, refusing to take corners at anything above a walking pace.
This time round though, Virgin Trains were prepared. They announced during the journey home that owing to the expected snowfall, they would be running a reduced service! The wonders of modern weather forecasting - now companies can cancel services before a single flake has fallen!
Prior to departure the train manager announced that, in common with other trains today, we would be diverting via Stafford and Crewe on the way back (the 4.35 normally only calls at Macclesfield, Stoke-on-Trent and Stockport) owing to a gas leak in the Macclesfield area. The train was still expected to meet all of its normal arrival times though, so everything still looked pretty good. Except for those travelling to Macc and Stoke of course, who were now going to have to change at Stafford onto a local service.
Laptop deployed as before, game of Spider Solitaire successfully concluded, I noticed that 4.35 had come and gone and there was no sign of movement. After a few minutes the tannoy crackled into life once more to apologise for the delay in departure which was caused by a fault on an external door. It refused to close properly, with the result that the automated system wouldn't give the driver the all-clear to leave, or release the computerised lock on the brakes. An engineer was, we were told, on his way...
We finally departed Euston at 4.55 and delays en-route meant we were a full 30 minutes late back to Piccadilly. I guess it could have been worse. I could have been travelling today and incurred the snow-instigated delays. We don't normally deal with snow very well in this country. Public services are disrupted out of all proportion to the amount of snow, and most drivers take one look at a white pavement and engage overcautious mode, refusing to take corners at anything above a walking pace.
This time round though, Virgin Trains were prepared. They announced during the journey home that owing to the expected snowfall, they would be running a reduced service! The wonders of modern weather forecasting - now companies can cancel services before a single flake has fallen!
Wednesday, February 07, 2007
A bad day for travelling
Getting down to London and being established in the office for a 10 o'clock meeting is in some ways harder than for 9 o'clock. There are more choices. If I need to be there first thing, there's only one choice - the 5.20 - and although it's an excruciatingly early start, at least the train is guaranteed to be almost empty at Piccadilly. It fills up around Rugby because by then it's not stupid o'clock and it's the commuters train of choice, but at our end you have your pick of seats.
To arrive later, there's almost too much choice, but I've learned that the 6.05 is very heavily booked and it's hard to get a seat at a table. There are two reasons for this. First, the time is (a little) more sensible. Second, and probably more important, it's fast to Euston - stopping only at Stockport - so it gets in shortly after 8. Ironically only a few minutes later than the 5.20, because that makes several stops and goes via Crewe which is a longer route. However in the past I've discovered that the 6.15 is almost as empty as the 5.20. Leaving only ten minutes later than the 6.05 it's not a good bet for those in a hurry. It's a stopping train and gets in almost an hour later. But for those of use wanting only a relatively early start, it's ideal. Or so I thought.
This morning's journey started on the wrong foot when the taxi I'd ordered for 5.40 arrived at 5.30 and rang the bell. I was still in the middle of a post for TV Scoop and was annoyed that the bell had woken Nikki. The taxi driver confirmed that the controller had given him 5.40 as the time booked but said I needed to specify "don't knock" on the call if I wanted him to wait outside.
Arriving at Piccadilly I noticed the early train times had been pushed back two minutes. The 6.05 was now the 6.07 and was on the board. The 6.17 was waiting on Platform 6. I bought a magazine, sussed out the table seat I wanted and stood on the freezing cold platform waiting for the doors to be opened, feeling very glad I'd decided to leave a T-shirt on under my shirt. A few minutes later I was settled in to my seat, laptop deployed and waiting to set off. The train manager started his usual announcement: "This train calls at Stockport, Wilmslow, Crewe, Birmingham, Birmingham New Street, Coventry and arrives at Euston at 9.42."
9.42?? That's (works it out on fingers) 3 hours and 25 minutes! Trains from Piccadilly normally take about 2 hours 15. The train manager continued: "passengers with first class or standard open tickets may want to travel on the 6.35 which gets into Euston almost a full HOUR earlier."
I was off that train like a shot. Had to be: it was only two minutes away from leaving! Having warmed up nicely I spent another cold ten minutes on platform 8 waiting for the doors to open again. I spotted a table seat with no reserved ticket on it and bided my time. Being late onto the platform I wasn't in pole position for the door, and a woman with a suitcase was already waiting by the closest door. I didn't want to get stuck behind her so I walked further up and stood by the door at the other end of the carriage. Strictly, according to unspoken platform etiquette, I was "behind" the guy waiting there but when the doors pinged to indicate they'd been unlocked, he hesitated for a split-second too long giving me the social permission to activate the button and hence get in before him.
As I swung into my chosen seat I glanced up at the electronic seat reservation displays. Damn! The seat was taken! Not just that seat, but every seat at that table. I grabbed my bag and started back up the coach. The next table was taken and the next. And it wasn't only the tables. Every seat was taken; even the ones without paper "reserved" tickets. I should explain that Virgin trains don't have an awful lot of success with their automated booking service, so the displays are often wrong, or not working at all. When this happens they use the fall-back manual system of sticking bits of paper in the back of the seats, but these can be a trap for the unwary traveller. The presence of tickets in the seat backs does not necessarily indicate a malfunction of the displays. However, on walking through to Coach E and discovering that the displays in there also showed every single seat reserved I began to suspect the signs were indeed wrong. Other passengers were beginning to mill about in the aisle in confusion, so I quickly made my way back to Coach D, dumped my bag back on my original seat, and went to find the train manager. He confirmed the sign information was "still downloading" and we should take notice only of the paper reservations in the seatbacks. My seat didn't have one (the reason I'd picked it out while still on the platform) so once again I settled in for the journey, albeit a little wary of anyone walking past in case their name happened to be S Clark or A Chilton.
The seat information never did download properly, neither Clark nor Chilton ever turned up and eventually the train manager began to tell boarding passengers to ignore the displays. At Crewe a besuited gentleman boarded and asked if he could sit down. I moved the bag containing the remains of my breakfast onto the table and wedged myself against the window. Sitting four to a table is always uncomfortable. The seats are just too narrow to easily accommodate two and sitting opposite someone inevitably means legs can't be stretched and discomfort results. The suit squirmed around in his seat for a few seconds, tugged at his jacket as if I was sitting on it (I wasn't), waved his arms around to test the space available to him and then declared sotto voce "not really enough room here, is there?" and stood up again. I really don't think I'm that wide, but he found alternative accommodation at the next table down on the other side of the carriage, next to a lady who must have been somewhat narrower than me, since he settled there without further trouble.
The views from the window were pretty this morning though - everything painted white with frost. Even the train yards and scabby factories lining the track look more attractive when they're rimed with cold.
I had to look for some silver - or in this case white - lining to the journey. Train problems at Crewe held us up for 15 minutes and signalling problems outside Watford delayed us even further, so in the end we arrived at Euston at 9.54: twelve minutes later than I would have arrived if I'd stayed on the 6.17. >sigh<
Naturally I'd texted my manager to let him know I was going to be late for the 10am meeting. "It's OK," he replied, "it's probably going to be at 3pm now." I love my job.
To arrive later, there's almost too much choice, but I've learned that the 6.05 is very heavily booked and it's hard to get a seat at a table. There are two reasons for this. First, the time is (a little) more sensible. Second, and probably more important, it's fast to Euston - stopping only at Stockport - so it gets in shortly after 8. Ironically only a few minutes later than the 5.20, because that makes several stops and goes via Crewe which is a longer route. However in the past I've discovered that the 6.15 is almost as empty as the 5.20. Leaving only ten minutes later than the 6.05 it's not a good bet for those in a hurry. It's a stopping train and gets in almost an hour later. But for those of use wanting only a relatively early start, it's ideal. Or so I thought.
This morning's journey started on the wrong foot when the taxi I'd ordered for 5.40 arrived at 5.30 and rang the bell. I was still in the middle of a post for TV Scoop and was annoyed that the bell had woken Nikki. The taxi driver confirmed that the controller had given him 5.40 as the time booked but said I needed to specify "don't knock" on the call if I wanted him to wait outside.
Arriving at Piccadilly I noticed the early train times had been pushed back two minutes. The 6.05 was now the 6.07 and was on the board. The 6.17 was waiting on Platform 6. I bought a magazine, sussed out the table seat I wanted and stood on the freezing cold platform waiting for the doors to be opened, feeling very glad I'd decided to leave a T-shirt on under my shirt. A few minutes later I was settled in to my seat, laptop deployed and waiting to set off. The train manager started his usual announcement: "This train calls at Stockport, Wilmslow, Crewe, Birmingham, Birmingham New Street, Coventry and arrives at Euston at 9.42."
9.42?? That's (works it out on fingers) 3 hours and 25 minutes! Trains from Piccadilly normally take about 2 hours 15. The train manager continued: "passengers with first class or standard open tickets may want to travel on the 6.35 which gets into Euston almost a full HOUR earlier."
I was off that train like a shot. Had to be: it was only two minutes away from leaving! Having warmed up nicely I spent another cold ten minutes on platform 8 waiting for the doors to open again. I spotted a table seat with no reserved ticket on it and bided my time. Being late onto the platform I wasn't in pole position for the door, and a woman with a suitcase was already waiting by the closest door. I didn't want to get stuck behind her so I walked further up and stood by the door at the other end of the carriage. Strictly, according to unspoken platform etiquette, I was "behind" the guy waiting there but when the doors pinged to indicate they'd been unlocked, he hesitated for a split-second too long giving me the social permission to activate the button and hence get in before him.
As I swung into my chosen seat I glanced up at the electronic seat reservation displays. Damn! The seat was taken! Not just that seat, but every seat at that table. I grabbed my bag and started back up the coach. The next table was taken and the next. And it wasn't only the tables. Every seat was taken; even the ones without paper "reserved" tickets. I should explain that Virgin trains don't have an awful lot of success with their automated booking service, so the displays are often wrong, or not working at all. When this happens they use the fall-back manual system of sticking bits of paper in the back of the seats, but these can be a trap for the unwary traveller. The presence of tickets in the seat backs does not necessarily indicate a malfunction of the displays. However, on walking through to Coach E and discovering that the displays in there also showed every single seat reserved I began to suspect the signs were indeed wrong. Other passengers were beginning to mill about in the aisle in confusion, so I quickly made my way back to Coach D, dumped my bag back on my original seat, and went to find the train manager. He confirmed the sign information was "still downloading" and we should take notice only of the paper reservations in the seatbacks. My seat didn't have one (the reason I'd picked it out while still on the platform) so once again I settled in for the journey, albeit a little wary of anyone walking past in case their name happened to be S Clark or A Chilton.
The seat information never did download properly, neither Clark nor Chilton ever turned up and eventually the train manager began to tell boarding passengers to ignore the displays. At Crewe a besuited gentleman boarded and asked if he could sit down. I moved the bag containing the remains of my breakfast onto the table and wedged myself against the window. Sitting four to a table is always uncomfortable. The seats are just too narrow to easily accommodate two and sitting opposite someone inevitably means legs can't be stretched and discomfort results. The suit squirmed around in his seat for a few seconds, tugged at his jacket as if I was sitting on it (I wasn't), waved his arms around to test the space available to him and then declared sotto voce "not really enough room here, is there?" and stood up again. I really don't think I'm that wide, but he found alternative accommodation at the next table down on the other side of the carriage, next to a lady who must have been somewhat narrower than me, since he settled there without further trouble.
The views from the window were pretty this morning though - everything painted white with frost. Even the train yards and scabby factories lining the track look more attractive when they're rimed with cold.
I had to look for some silver - or in this case white - lining to the journey. Train problems at Crewe held us up for 15 minutes and signalling problems outside Watford delayed us even further, so in the end we arrived at Euston at 9.54: twelve minutes later than I would have arrived if I'd stayed on the 6.17. >sigh<
Naturally I'd texted my manager to let him know I was going to be late for the 10am meeting. "It's OK," he replied, "it's probably going to be at 3pm now." I love my job.
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