Journey home

September 14, 2006

Where am I?

What time is it?

Why are there no lights on?

Who on earth is he?

I do hope he’s not a member of the hoi polloi. I’ve read ever such unflattering things about them in The Economist.

Above is a brief précis of the thoughts bandying around inside my head at about 1.20 this morning. The circumstances leading up to this inner monologue are probably best understood before I go any further.

After a typically rewarding day at the office, I went out for half a lager shandy with some friends. I finally extricated myself from the vice-like grip of their combined wit at about 11.20, and enjoyed a brief jaunt down to Fenchurch Street Station to get the train home.

Arriving at Fenchurch St, everything was good. Faced with 2 trains to choose from, I opted for the 2345. It goes via the faster of the two possible routes, and terminates at my station. In a worst case scenario, I’ll fall asleep on the train, and be woken up by the driver a mere 8 minutes walk away from my house. And as an added bonus, it’s not the last train — I had avoided the Vomit Comet. Life — for a nice change — seemed to be dealing me the good cards. I landed a nice conversation on the flop, and the turn had yielded a good train home.
So I settled down on the train with the cryptic crossword. I struggled to get one clue, and then fell asleep.

And that brings us back up to date.

After a few bleary seconds and a Looney Tunes doubletake, it turns out the train arrived promptly in Grays. There it sat for 15 minutes — with me asleep inside it — until the driver got into the other end, and went back to the depot in East Ham. With me asleep inside it. This rendered me significantly outside of a comfortable 8 minute walk home. I had bet all my chips, and the river had been dealt from the bottom of the pack.

In a way, it all turned out OK. Because they should have checked the train before taking it back to the depot, the train company picked up the 50 quid tab for the cab home. The only problem is that in between waiting for the cab, and the length of the journey home, I didn’t get to bed until about 3am. Thus, in spite of my modest RCP-based successes of the day, I find myself right now flagging faster than a semaphorist at the Battle of Jutland.

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6 Responses to “Journey home”

  1. Train Driver Says:

    Cock!!

  2. Ticket Inspector Says:

    don’t step on the live rail

  3. Andy Says:

    you’re lucky. An unnamed member of our esteemed establishment ended up in Norwich on Christmas Eve and had to beg for a ride back from the Royal Mail train….

  4. Vik Says:

    Silly, very silly, m’ boy!


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