In fact, I cannot really complain; last weekend I went to an amazing 18th consisting of boats, music, fire, red champagne (yes, red) and Smirnoff ices, complete with the all important balloons and cake which are the most vital elements to making any party successful (in my opinion anyway). However, the following morning I woke up in a bed on a river-barge feeling, not surprisingly, rather groggy and also sans voix. I am sure certain people would consider my lack of voice a blessing, but it nevertheless did cause myself a bit of inconvenience. So, after rescuing my 'half-term suitcase' and having some toast and orange juice, I set off with a trusty companion of mine to catch a train down to London Euston. The journey was very smooth up to that point and after having had a little bit of confusion with how to use e-tickets, got onto our platform and only had to wait a few minutes before the shiny train shot its way in (the last time I was using trains I had just finished Gold Duke of Edinburgh and managed to miss my train from Sheffield, resulting in not only being stranded with no money and a rapidly dying mobile phone, but also being thrown out of the station under the presumption that I was a tramp.) So armed with a headache, a suitcase, a copy of Catcher in the Rye, and a young wannabe-on-the-Apprentice business woman yabbering down a mobile phone on the opposite seat, I made my way down with mon amie.
After arriving at Euston we went over to Camden to eat some lunch... which as delicious as the lunch was, revealed itself to be a bad idea. Turns out, the station at Camden is currently 'exit-only', which meant a jolly walk down to Mornington Crescent, which on any other day would have been very nice, except for the fact that I was burdened with a good old fat suitcase. So the suitcase weaved its way through traffic, insistent on disobeying any direction I attempted to give it, bashing into railings and fellow pedestrians' shins. Some woman was so busy on the phone that she walked straight into it and then, after giving a very girly yelp, made a nasty remark and began jabbering on at me something about the youth of today and suitcases, to which I merely blinked absent-mindedly. One problem with me is that I rarely get angry or frustrated in the moment; I stand there taking in what just happened and the emotion only clicks in subsequently, and then I have a little rant at myself about how annooooying that person was.
Anyway, back on topic, we got to the station eventually to find that the escalators were all broken; by this point I couldn't care less and so dragged my suitcase down what seemed an eternity and after many annoyed looks and 'watch-it!' threats from people (thanks to said suitcase), we reached the inner sanctum of London's pride and glory; the TUBE. Yes, that never-ending length of track and people all hustling and bustling in the depths of London city, where no-one ever dares to look into the eyes of a fellow passenger for fear that they may be burned at the stake... or look like a total psycho. I only remember once ever having had a conversation with somebody on the tube, and that somebody was convinced they were a leprechaun. Anyway, after parting ways with my fellow traveller I finally reached Marylebone, only to be confronted with a flashing, glimmering sign saying;
NO TRAINS TO AMERSHAM FROM MARYLEBONE
No trains from Marylebone...?!?! What the hell is that!!! So, I trundled out of the station and round a few blocks until reaching Baker Street... only to receive the same message: the London railway system was clearly designed by a person who had spent his childhood crashing toy trains. My headache did not allow for any feelings of frustration, so I calmly made my way with my eyes half-open over to a greasy-looking station helper, warden, officer... person. (What do you call those guys anyway?!) I asked him politely as to how I was supposed to get to Amersham and he told me something about all trains being cancelled or delayed, and I could always stay at his place for the night. Screw that. I would of been better off with the 'Fat Controller' from Thomas the Tank Engine. I asked him if there were any other trains going anywhere remotely close to Amersham.
"Dunno... probably not. They're doin' maintenance to upgrade the London metropolitan".
Meanwhile a pile of German tourists had been surrounding me, giving me the evils for 'taking too long', eager to ask the poor assistant 'vere iz ze Ogzvord Stveet pleaze?' My head was thumping. I tried to make a little joke. That’s right. Hah hah…funny.
"Hmmm... well so much for the metropolitan, they've certainly made the tube more cosmopolitan haven't they."
Slap-thigh moment right?
Wrong. German death-stare.
All right, all right! Jesus, don’t jump down my throat. I get the idea. Never use wit in a segue. I’ll go home and jot that down in a novel I’m writing: ‘101 Ways To Intrigue, Excite, and Enthrall Your Various Impatient German Tourists'.
OK so thats not funny either... I should just stick to my day-job.
So after slipping away in what I hoped was in a subtle manner, I hopped onto the nearest metropolitan line train (yank with the suitcase), arrived at some random station, and then took various buses to zig-zag my way back... and I finally arrived at home after what should have been 30 minutes. I spent the rest of the evening eating cookies.
'Faust Arp' by Radiohead and ‘Breathe Me’ by Sia
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