On the Road Again

After three years without a car, I finally bought another car. Actually, I bought two. First, I bought a VW Golf. I had it fifteen days, then I crashed it. It was a write off. I had to wait a month for the insurance check. Once the insurance paid off, I started looking for another car. With the Golf, I got lucky. I found it the first day I started looking with money in my pocket. The second car took me over a month to find. I finally settled on a Peugeot, which cost half as much as my Golf. I never dreamed I would ever buy a French car. In any case, the Peugeot has survived and gets good mileage. It's great being off public transport and I get to and from work in half the time.




A woman I wanted to date turned me down, a couple of years ago, because I didn't have a car. More recently, last year, another woman I was briefly dating complained that she didn't want to go on dates with me riding on the bus. This was despite the fact that she didn't own a car and road the bus every day, herself. She told me, "you need to buy a car." I let her know that I would buy a car when I was ready, not when she snapped her fingers. Both these women lost out on a relationship with me, because they couldn't be patient. I wonder how many others made the same mistake?



When I was younger, I always wanted flashy sports cars. Several times in my life, I loaded myself with expensive car payments to support this desire. This time, after three years with no car, I decided that any car is better than no car. I paid for my modest car cash. No loan payments to make, it has cheap insurance, and good fuel economy. Maybe I have finally learned a lesson.

Speak English!

I get frustrated with some people who talk on mobiles while on public transport. Okay, it’s not what you think. Plenty of people moan about being bothered by people having mobile conversations on buses, trains, even on the Tube, when it runs above ground. I have no problem with it. In fact, in these tough economic times, I think it’s a golden opportunity for free entertainment. Instead of berating these travelling talkers, listen in on their conversations. You get endless hours of free amusement, then. Why waste money on an iPod, when you can hear one half of a juicy conversation, free? The songs on your iPod you’ve heard before anyway. This is fresh, real life, and it’s drama!

I’m sure there are some of you, out there, who’ll claim that earwigging is rude. “Nonsense,” I say. If people are going to talk loudly, in public spaces, they should expect people to listen. It’s fun trying to guess who the person on the other end is, when you only have half the conversation to go on. This can be especially useful, when you’ve completed the easy and intermediate sudokus, and are stuck on the hard one. As you listen in on the conversation, you can try to figure out if it’s to a spouse, boyfriend or girlfriend, parent, employer, employee, business associate, or just a friend.

However, as no good column would be complete without a moan about something, I do have one complaint. As London is a cosmopolitan city, with people from all sorts of nations and ethnic backgrounds, you do get some spoilsports who insist on talking, on their mobiles, in a foreign language. It is to these people that I say, “Speak English!” Otherwise, how are the rest of us supposed to listen in? I will defend to the death (yours, not mine) your right to talk loudly into your mobile, on the public transport network, as long as you do it in English. Otherwise, you can sod off, back to where you came from. I’m an immigrant too and if I can do it, so can you. Those of us born into families that speak English are notoriously bad at going on to learn other languages. Therefore, it’s up to you lot, who learned English as a second language, to speak it whenever you’re talking on your mobile, in public. Have a nice day.

New Day Job

I am so happy with my new "day" job. No more working at the restaurant, for me. Okay, I miss the free food, but I have doubled my income. I'm now saving money to send my mother and I have money in my pocket. For those of you who don't already know and are curious as to what I am doing, I am driving a bus, in London. A big, red double-decker, London bus. Hey! it's fun.
Of course, I can't help thinking about the negative attitudes that used to be directed my way, by a number of women, at the paltriness of my old salary. One old girlfriend referred to me as someone "with no prospects." Now I earn more than her, ha, ha, ha. Another female friend, desperate to get married and/or have a baby, turned her nose up at me, because I didn't earn enough to, in her words, support her, while she took time off from work, to give birth. Although she wanted to wait five years, before getting pregnant. I used to ask her, "why do you assume I will be making the same in five years time?" Then, there was the woman I was seeing, last year, who stopped all contact with me, because I said I would marry someone rich, for money. Why was she bothered? She's not rich. Anyway, this "indecent proposal" conversation was only academic. There was another woman, who turned her nose up at dating me, in part, because I don't own a car. Well, I am planning on buying a car again, next year.
Sod all of them! I'm on my way back up. While the world has a financial melt-down, my financial situation is vastly improving. It's going to be a happy new year, indeed.

Third Time Unlucky?

It's been almost six months since I posted a blog article. Traveling by public transportation uses up a lot of the free time I used to spend blogging. Also, I've been very busy, doing radio, TV, and my new day job. In any case, I wanted to share something with you, my lovely readers, for some time. I've finally taken the time to write about it.
The details are a little fuzzy, now, as this actually happened last spring. In my last two postings, I explained how I had helped total strangers. The first time was a beautiful, young woman. Then I helped an old lady, but as I got something out of it, cynics among you have cast doubt on that as an act of chivalry. It happened again, but this time, I helped a man.
I was on my way North, one Saturday morning, to do my radio show. I stopped at Egham Train station, to by a ticket to Victoria, since my season ticket didn't cover travel to London stations. Ahead of me, there was a muscular young man at the ticket window. He seemed to be having trouble communicating with the woman behind the glass. He was asking for directions to Victoria Station and I suddenly realized that he was speaking in an American accent. After a bit of hesitation, my impatience got the better of me and I interrupted them. "I can show you how to get to Victoria. That's where I'm going," I said.
The young man accepted my offer of assistance and, more to the point for me, got out of the way, so I could buy my ticket. The next train was due in minutes and I didn't want to miss it. After getting my ticket, I told the fellow to follow me, onto the next train. As I explained that he needed to change at Clapham Junction, he gave me an unsure look. "Just come with me, as I'm going that way," I instructed. It seemed the simplest way to solve his problem.
So, we ended up sitting together, on the train. He explained that he was a soldier, serving in Iraq, but was in the UK on leave, visiting some friends. Although I was interested in finding out about Iraq, he seemed reluctant to talk about it. I relented and we talked about what he'd seen on his vacation, so far. Once I had safely escorted him to Victoria, I showed him where to catch the coach he was looking for, then headed to my own.
Having now helped a man, so that it can't be excused away by my weakness for women, what does this signify? Am I getting soft as I get older? Was it just because he was American? Or, merely the result of me wanting to get him out of my way, at the ticket window? What will become of my reputation, now?

Oh No, Not Again!

It's been a while since I posted a blog article. I'm sorry about that, but I'm so busy these days, it's hard to find the time. I want to mention something that happened the day after the events in my last post ("A Bit of Chivalry," April 30, 2008). To review, that article is about me helping a total stranger, on the way to Victoria Bus Station, in London.
On the following day, I was on my way back home, from Withernsea. It was raining and cold, so I decided to treat myself to a taxi ride home, from the Bracknell train station. When I walked out of the front of the station, all the taxis had pulled off with other passengers. There was one couple who'd missed the last taxi. For some strange reason, these two rocket scientists were standing at the end of the taxi rank, where they had just missed the last cab. They weren't moving to the front of the queue, so as to be in place when the next cab pulls up. This left me in a dilemma. Should I go stand with them, being that they were there ahead of me, or should I go stand at the front, where they should have moved?
After a brief few moments pondering this, one of life's profound questions, I decided to stand at the front, where they should have been. I figured that if they noticed me at the front, they might wake up and come there. If they did and said anything about being in queue first, I'd defer to them. On the other hand, if they were too stupid to cotton on and move to where they were supposed to be, and they didn't say anything, I'd take the first cab that comes.
Fortunately, the taxi rank is covered by the upper floors of the station building. This meant I was sheltered from the rain, while I waited. During the wait, I pondered the irony that the one time I wanted a cab, there were none there, available. That's quite unusual for Bracknell train station. There's usually plenty waiting when the trains arrive. All of the sudden, I noticed this tiny, little, old lady, who had walked up and stood to my right. The rocket scientists were still at the wrong end of the queue. This old lady had gotten in queue behind me, seeing that I was at the front. Like me, she'd left the idiots down the other end to fend for themselves. She was carrying a little bit of shopping and I started wondering if I should let her take the first cab, when it arrived. It's too bad we weren't going the same place, then we could share it and split the cost. As I stood there, my curiosity grew. Where was she headed? Was it to anywhere near my house?
Eventually, a taxi approached, returning empty from dropping of a previous customer. The old lady saw it at the same time I did. She looked up at me and said, "this is your cab."
For some unknown reason, I overcame indecision and my strong tendency not to speak to strangers. I asked her, "where are you headed to?" It turned out she was going to the same street as me. She lived about fifty houses up the road. So, I suggested that we share the cab between us.
"Are you sure?" she inquired, in response. I reassured her that I was certain. What a wonderful outcome. I was able to get her on her way, so she wouldn't have to stand there and wait longer, while at the same time, getting my own journey home for half price. The driver dropped her off first, then me. As I paid him, my sheer joy at saving half the fare was interrupted by a tiny, negative thought. This was the second time I had helped a total stranger, in two days. Was there something wrong with me? Was I ill? Had I lost my mind? If news of this gets out, what will happened to my reputation?

A Bit of Chivalry

On Saturday, the 19th of April, I was traveling up to Withernsea, to do my radio show. I happened to be walking from Victoria Tube Station, in London, to Victoria Coach Station, to get a bus to Hull. As I started to cross the road, I noticed an attractive, blond, young woman, struggling with several pieces of luggage. She had so much stuff, I figured she must be travelling with someone else. Normally, I don't get involved. Hey! I'm a New Yorker. I keep my head down and mind my own business. This time, something caused me to break the habit of a lifetime.
My inertia carried me beyond the girl. I was one quarter of the way across the road, past her, but still looking back at her. I wondered if she could be alone. I don't know why I did, but I turned back. Maybe it was because I was still smarting from the twenty-something, oriental woman giving me her seat, previously. In any case, I approached this blond and asked, "are you going to the coach station?" Her response was a bit confused and she wasn't on the right side of the road for it, but I worked out that the answer was, "yes." Unfortunately for her, she was planning to head in the wrong direction. Fortunately for her, I wasn't a mugger, rapist, con man, or murderer.
Victoria Coach station is a little confusing, as it's spread over three buildings. She was heading toward the building where mostly local buses depart from. She needed to head to the departures building, for the long-distance services. I happened to be headed to the same place. I pointed out where she needed to go, then asked, "would you like me to help you carry your bags?" Enthusiastically, she said yes. I took one of her biggest bags, with built in wheels, and another, smaller bag. I hung the smaller bag from the extended handle of the bigger one. I still had my own shoulder bag, plus a shopping bag full of newspapers and food. We set off to the departures building.
Her bag on wheels was heavier than I thought and I was struggling with all I had to contend with. She spoke with an American accent, so I asked where she was from. Alaska was the answer. "You're only the second person I have ever met from Alaska," I said. No wonder this chick was so trusting. She was from the wilderness. I learned that she was a student, spending a semester in Europe. Having come to Britain from Germany, she'd spent a week in London and was now on her way north, to some university I'd never heard of. As I struggled with her heavy bags, I asked, "you haven't got books in here, have you?" After all, she was a self-confessed student. She denied that the contents contained literary matter, so I asked, "why have you got so much stuff?" Innocently, she informed me that she'd been buying all sorts of things as she travelled across Europe. "Do yourself a favor," I suggested, "and send some of this stuff home, by courier, or something." I couldn't imagine her managing on her own, with this load.
"I thought of doing that," she said, "but when I asked my parents, they said to just keep it with me."
Her parents probably didn't want to be bothered with all of her junk. "You haven't figured it out, yet, huh? Don't ask your parents, just send it." She seemed a bit clueless. Then I found out that she was only seventeen. No wonder she didn't know what to do. I told her she was pretty brave, traveling around Europe and doing a semester abroad, at seventeen, all on her own. She was earlier for her bus than I was for mine, so we chatted for a while, in the departures lounge. She explained that she'd finished high school early, which explained why she was doing a university semester abroad, at such a young age. Obviously, she was brainy, if not worldly. Something paternalistic in me had taken over. She was a year younger than my evil ex-stepdaughter, the Black Princess, was now, and even more blond. I gave her tips on Britain and advice, plus invited her to tune in to my radio show. Eventually, other girls near to her age, fellow students, started turning up. I noticed her looking at them and realised that she wanted to get to know some of them. I said farewell and shuffled off to my gate. I felt satisfied that I had helped a very deserving person. What's wrong with me? Am I getting soft as I get older, or what?

How Old Does She Think I Am?

Last Wednesday, on the way home from my day job, I decided to take advantage of an accumulation of loyalty points and stop at a supermarket, to redeem some of them. It was my turn to buy toilet paper, for the house. Toilet paper is one of those items I can't get free, at work. With a family size pack running about £4, it seemed like the ideal time to cash in some points.
I stopped in the Sainsbury's in Camberley, before catching the train home. Spotting some vegetables marked down, I added some impulse items to my basket. When I was ready to check out, I was faced with one of those supermarket dilemmas. To my left was a very attractive, "black" female cashier, with no one in line. To my right, an ugly, "white," female cashier, equally idle. Which cashier should I choose? Cheekily, I asked the "black" gal, "which one of you should I go to?" Unimpressed, she suggested that I use the other woman. Despite her advice, I started putting my purchases on the "black" woman's conveyor belt. I had overcome a moment's hesitation, when the thought occurred to me that the ugly woman might be the better cashier. When it comes to picking checkout queues, beauty usually wins out, with me. If I must stand in a queue, I might as well have a pretty face to look at. I would come to regret my decision.
I'd found a real bargain in toilet paper. I selected a package of Sainsbury's own brand, which was sixteen rolls for the price of twelve. This was the largest package of loo roll I had ever purchased and me without a car. Fortunately, it came with a built-in handle. With my other purchases in a carrier bag and having saved £7.50 off a total bill of just over £8, I walked to the Camberley train station. I'd messed up my timing and just missed the train to Ascot. That left me with almost thirty minutes to wait for the next one. Sitting down to pass the time, I happened to start reviewing the receipt from my shopping. I have a tendency to look over my receipts from supermarkets, to check that I haven't been over-charged. Usually everything is fine, but this time, it wasn't. The pretty cashier had overcharged me by thirty pence! I contemplated going back. It would be a pain in the ass to walk back, with the things I was carrying: my black shoulder bag, my package of sixteen loo rolls, and my carrier bag of impulse purchases. Still, I had time to kill and I hate losing money unnecessarily. As I walked back to the store, it occurred to me that the ugly woman probably wouldn't have made the mistake. A lot of ugly women are good at their jobs, because they can't just coast through on their looks.
I managed to get my thirty pence back and still catch the next train to Ascot. Once in Ascot, I changed platforms and caught the first train towards Reading; a necessary step, if one is going to Bracknell. After arriving in Bracknell, I decided that I'd had enough of schlepping with all the things I was carrying. I decided to treat myself to a bus ride home, rather than the half-an-hour walk. When the 194 arrived at the bus station, it was a double-decker. I didn't feel like struggling with all my stuff to the upper deck, especially as I was only going three stops. However, because I was one of the last people on the bus, there were no more easily accessible seats on the lower level. I resigned myself to parking my packages in the area provided for luggage and stand. As the bus started off, a lovely, oriental, young woman, seated in the single seat nearest to me, asked if I wanted to sit down. Even though I said, "no," she got up anyway. I figured she must be getting off soon, so I took the vacated seat.
It felt good to be seated. I eyed my benefactor and she smiled at me, when we made eye contact. She was short and looked a little like Lucy Liu, only with a slightly darker complexion. As I sat looking her over, thinking she's somewhat attractive, I tried to decide what Asian country she might be from. She looked Chinese, but with the tanned coloring that is common amongst Thais and Nepalese. As I was enjoying the view of her long, dark hair, we passed the first couple of stops without her getting off. It suddenly occurred to me that she hadn't gotten up because she was getting off. She had deliberately vacated the seat so I could have it, like one would do for an elderly person. Looking at her and estimating her age to be in her early twenties, I thought, "how old does she think I am?" Here I had been, fantasizing over her, sexually, and she'd been treating me like an old age pensioner! The pleasure of getting to sit had turned into a sour taste in my mouth. I'm not even fifty yet, for Pete's sake!
The bus approached my stop, so I signaled that I wanted to get off. As I gathered my things, I noted that the young woman was still on board. Well, at least she could have the seat back. I slipped out the door, leaving my little, oriental fortune cookie on board. Oh, the humiliation! She thinks I am an old man. I walked home from the bus stop, with my bags, sixteen rolls of toilet paper, and my bruised pride. Should I stoop to coloring my hair to hide the grey? What price vanity?

Open and Shut Case

Last Thursday, I was working on a film shoot, on location, in London. It was my fourth day on the same project and, just as on the previous project I worked on with the same director, he seemed to keep us waiting around a lot. As long as I'm getting paid, I couldn't care less. On Thursday, I didn't do anything all day, but sit around, sleep, play sudoku, read the paper, eat, and chat with fellow background artistes.
Barbara, the Hungarian woman I met about eleven months ago, on the director's previous project, was also on the current shoot. This time, she'd gotten her son on the job, as well. He seemed like a nice young man and is very "into" films. Each day, I carry my black shoulder bag, to keep my "stuff" in. For the shoot, it contained flapjacks, newspapers, a book, my hat, plus back up pen, train schedules, bus schedules, my portable radio, and a few other "bits." The bag is actually an old, leather, laptop case. Someone was throwing it out, last year, when I rescued it. As I tend to pick up any free newspaper I can get my hands on, but don't throw them away until I have completed the sudokus in them, there are usually several newspapers sticking out of the top of one of the compartments of the case.
When we wrapped for the day, I happened to be walking out at the same time as Barbara's son. Suddenly, he says to me, "your bag is open."
After looking down to check it, I say, "I know." Of course it's open. I usually leave two or three of the top compartments open, because I have so much "stuff" inside, I can't close the zippers. Several newspapers were sticking out of one of the compartments, as normal. Was he really concerned that someone might steal one of my several days old newspapers, or was he just teasing me? I walked to the Tube station and didn't give the matter any more thought.
After taking the District line to Richmond, I crossed over to the Southwest Trains platform, to catch the next Reading bound train. When the train arrived, it was very full. I pushed past several people standing in the doorway. I had spotted one empty seat, between two people, facing backwards. I hurried to get to the seat, before someone else grabbed it. I was tired and wanted to sit for the journey to Bracknell. As I started down the aisle, towards the seat, one of the people who had been standing in the doorway grabbed my arm. It was a young man I had squeezed past. It had better be important, as he'd just violated the taboo against touching a stranger. Feeling annoyed, I turned to see what this person wanted. "Your bag is open," he said.
"Yeah, I know," I said feeling exasperated. That's it? This muppet grabbed my arm on a crowded train, delaying me from reaching the only available seat, to tell me my bloody bag is open? It's always open! Every day I travel, one or more of the compartments is unzipped. There's nothing valuable inside. Usually, no one says anything about it. In fact, I have been travelling on public transportation since last July and no one has ever told me my bag was open. Until last Thursday. Now, two young men had told me in the same day. What's with these guys and my open bag? Leave me alone! I hate when strangers who aren't beautiful women disturb me, in public. I hate it when people tell me something I am already fully aware of, as if they've done me this massive favor. Why me? Why that day? I can hardly wait till I can afford a limousine.

Backwards People Vs Forwards People

One thing about travelling on the train is that a lot of seats face away from the direction of travel. This seems to be the case more for trains than for any other form of transport. When you fly on an airline, generally, all the seats face forwards. In some smaller planes, like corporate aircraft, and in helicopters, there are sometimes backwards facing seats, but not on airlines. One exception is the jump seats for cabin crew. These are often backwards facing. Some people don't like travelling facing backwards. They insist on facing forwards. I call these people, "forwards people." A minority prefer facing to the rear, so I call them, "backwards people." Others don't care, but I don't have a label for them.
Some forwards people claim they will throw up, if they ride in a backwards facing seat. I prefer facing forwards, myself. When I was younger, I went o great lengths to avoid riding backwards, but I never threw up because of it. As I have gotten older, I have found that I am less concerned with whether I end up in a backwards seat, or not. My main concern is to get where I am going and to have a seat. During my trip to Paris, at Christmas, I learned that my good friend, Barbara is a forwards person. She is one of those who claim riding backwards will make her vomit, so on the Eurostar, she insisted on moving from our reserved seats, which were backwards, to some forwards ones. I let her get on with it and stayed put.
The other day, I was on a crowed train. I ended up riding backwards. As there were so few seats available, I took the first one I could find. Looking to my right, across the aisle, I noticed that there were three blond women riding backwards, facing three brunettes riding forward. Is there a correlation between hair color and direction of travel preference? I feel empowered, because I can ride in either direction. Forwards people sometimes seem like a pain in the ass, when they start stressing over a seat. I've noticed one man, on the first train I take in the morning, who seems to be a backwards person. Even when a forward seat is available, he will take a backward one. I wonder if he'll be sick, if he rides forward? As I am a person who can ride in either direction, I wonder if that's why I haven't come up with a name for us?
So, which are you? Are you happy the way you are? Do you think direction of travel preference is due to nature or nurture? Can a forwards person ever be cured of his limitation? I just thought of something! Rowboats are primarily backwards facing. I wonder if forwards people are more susceptible to seasickness? Merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily...life is but a dream.

Bench Man

Having spent the past three months commuting by train, I've started to recognize some of the same people travelling at the same time, every weekday. One of these is a guy I have dubbed, "Bench Man." He wears a suit and looks like a business type. My suspicion at his profession is reinforced by the fact that he heads towards London every weekday morning. That's not unusual, as there are lots of business types on the eastbound train, in the morning. Many of them fumble with Blackberrys.
What's so special about Bench Man? Every time I see him, he's standing in front of one of the benches provided for passengers to sit on,while they wait at the station. That's his unique selling point. He stands in front of a bench. He stands so close to the bench, that he blocks one of the spaces on it, yet I never see him sitting, just standing in front. So why does he do it? This inconsiderate goon wastes one of the limited bench spaces and hes not even using it himself. If he would just move a couple of feet away from the bench, someone else could have a seat. Are you a Bench Man, blocking other people from using something, while deriving no benefit for yourself? Am I the only person who is considerate of others? I enjoy a small thrill when I arrive before Bench Man and sit in the spot where he usually stands. Gosh, the benches are ugly and not very comfortable, either.

Buses Versus Trains

Towards the end of last year, certain unexpected bills caused a cash flow shortage for me. Part of my coping strategy was to switch from taking the bus to my day job, to taking the train. The advantages are: the train is cheaper and I can pay for my ticket using a credit card. The latter preserves cash. The disadvantages are: I have a 25-30 minute walk to and from the train station and I have to get up a half-hour earlier. Originally, I meant this to only be a temporary measure. Once the cash flow crisis eases, I intend to go back to the bus. The bus is more convenient, as I only have to walk around the corner to get it. However, now that I have gotten used to the train, I am wondering, should I stay with it?
The enforced walking has caused me to loose more weight, which can only be a good thing. I am now getting an hour of exercise, every day. Also, my weekly train ticket can be used to get me discounts on travel, to and from London. There are also loads of free newspapers available on the train. I could pay extra and add the bus from the town centre to my weekly train ticket. Then I wouldn't have to walk home, although I would still have to walk to the station in the morning, as the buses aren't running that early. If I did add the bus, I would lose the financial savings I am currently enjoying, using the train. What do you think I should do?

Rushing to See August Rush

I managed to win tickets to see "August Rush," tonight, in an advanced preview. Instead of asking for two tickets as I usually do, then having the problem of not being able to find anyone to go with me, I only asked for one. I also managed to get a ticket to a cinema close by, for a change. The screening was in Slough, which is in the same county as Bracknell. However, things never work out for me with no hiccups. If I was still driving, then it would have been a simple matter to drive to Slough after work, for the 6:30PM screening. Riding the buses was a different matter.
Usually, the bus I take home gets me to the stop around the corner from my house by 5:35PM. If I stay on the same bus, it will take me to the Bracknell town centre, about ten minutes later. It would be 5:45 and I'd just be in Bracknell. There's no telling how close a connection I would manage with the bus onwards, to Slough. To make matters worse, all this would be happening in rush hour, when the traffic is bad. I could take the train, instead, but that would entail complicated connections, as Slough isn't on the same line as either Bracknell, Camberley, or Farnborough. Furthermore, buying a train ticket would entail extra expense. I can ride the buses for no extra charge, using my weekly bus ticket. I am so short of money these days, that this final consideration tipped the balance for me. I would make the epic journey by bus!
Unable to get out of work early, I departed at my usual time, starting with the 4:15 shuttle bus to Camberley. Being a Wednesday, I had managed to acquire a couple slices of pizza, left over from lunch. Having provisions with me would render it unnecessary to buy snacks from the cinema. Although the buses progressed at their normal plodding rate, I felt more anxious than usual, repeatedly checking my watch. When the 194 bus to Bracknell started pulling in to the Bracknell bus station, I looked through the windows, to see if the Slough bus was there. It was. Would I be able to make it onto the Slough bus before it pulled away? I willed the 194 driver to hurry up and open the doors.
As the doors opened, I leaped out of the bus I had arrived in. Dashing across the station, avoiding any of the mammoth buses that were in motion, I raced to the 191 to Slough. I made it! I couldn't have asked for a closer connection. However, whenever I have good news, it's usually accompanied by bad, it had started to rain. The rain would slow the traffic even more than usual. People in Britain seem to really have a tough time handling driving in the rain. Even Nando, my racist, Italian housemate, is bothered by driving in the rain. For Pete's sake! It's just a bit of water. My fate was now in the hands of the driver from First buses.
6:30PM came and went and we hadn't arrived at the Slough bus station. When we finally did arrive, I struggled to find the way to the cinema. The mall was partially closed, so instead of cutting through, I had to walk around. I kept hoping the film started late. If it was a normal showing, there would be about ten minutes of ads, followed by about ten minutes of coming attractions. These advanced previews usually don't have all that. Would they even let me in when I arrive late?
Finally, I rushed up to the box office twenty minutes after the screening was supposed to start. The man behind the counter informed me that the show had started already, but didn't object to me entering. I hate missing the beginning of a film, but I'd traveled so far, I might as well see as much as I could. After all, it was free. I don't know how much of the film I actually missed, as I have no idea if they started on time. I did manage to pick up the majority of the story.
"August Rush" is the story of a boy sent to an orphanage, as a baby. His parents are two unmarried, young musicians. The boy ends up on the streets of New York City, learning busking. He is a musical genius and his talent aids in his parents finding him, and each other. Directed by Kirsten Sheriden, the film has somewhat of a "female" feel to it. With a mother's bond with her long lost son triumphing over everything, I get the impression that this is the world the way a lot of women imagine it to be. It's Kirsten's seventh film as a director, although I haven't seen any of her other projects, nor even heard of them. The film is technically competent and the acting good, although some might feel that Robin Williams supporting role was a tad bit over-played. Freddie Highmore, who plays the starring role, is worthy of particular note. It's so hard to find good child actors, but he did an excellent job. I found it an enjoyable film that's suitable for families. It tugs at the heartstrings a bit and it may be slightly cheesy, but all in all, a nice story, well presented. The soundtrack is also quite good.

Old York

When I heard the Station Manager of Seaside Radio mention going to a museum of trains, I couldn't contain myself. Turning my reaction to this overheard bit of information into a joke, I berated him, mildly of course, for never telling me about this museum. His reaction? He promised to take me to it. Yesterday, that promise was fulfilled.
After I arranged myself in the back seat of my boss' car, the Manager's acquaintance, Dave, climbed into the front seat. With minimal delay, we were on our way. Dave, who was visiting from Northern Ireland, was quiet at first, but my constant banter eventually got through to him. On the way to York, we stopped in a small town, to visit another station. It seems Dave is a bit of a radiophile, not to mention a borderline train spotter. My boss talked tech with the station's management, while Dave looked on, seemingly enraptured. My interest waned after a few minutes. Once you've seen one bunch of radio equipment, you've seen them all, right? Besides, no one was paying any attention to me. It became a bit more interesting when they finally took us to see the studio. That would be the bit where I would work. The guy on air was about 100 years older than I thought he would be, listening to him in the car. The show he was doing sounded awful, to me. While technically competent, it was just the same old thing: a tired top 40 clone. A robot could have performed just as well.
Back on the road, we covered the rest of the distance to York fairly quickly. I have never been to the city before. It's an old, walled city. Founded in the year 71, the walls are older than New York, where I come from. We found the cheaper parking, across the street from the National Railway Museum, that one of the guys at the radio station we visited had recommended. It was almost full, but we managed to come across a space. On the grounds of the museum, a very large Ferris wheel was glistening in the sunlight. Known as the Yorkshire Wheel, it's a smaller imitation of the London Eye. Once in the entrance hall to the museum, we were pleased to discover that entrance to the museum is free. My boss asked if Dave and I wanted to go on the wheel. With his Northern Ireland accent, this sounded like "whale." I was trying to figure out what whale he was talking about, when it finally dawned on me that he meant the wheel. Since he was paying, I said yes. So did Dave. We all agreed that we would tour the museum first, then ride on the "whale." My boss acquired our "whale" tickets as well as our free museum tickets, then we immersed ourselves in railway hardware.
If you like trains, then the National Railway Museum is for you. I've always had a love affair with trains, since the earliest days of my childhood. I was interested in going to the museum, because my old friends, the husband and wife couple, Tim and Barbara, are due to visit me for Christmas. Tim is more into trains than I am, so I wanted to scout out this attraction, with a view toward taking them there in December. The National Railway Museum is home to many old locomotives, including famous ones, like the Flying Scotsman and the Mallard. If your taste runs more toward the modern, there are life-sized models of a Japanese Bullet train as well as the Eurostar. The museum offers more than just locomotives. There are railway cars, including retired carriages for the royal train, used by British kings and queens. On display are all sorts of items relating to railroads. Signs, signals, promotional material, plates, and furniture. I expect Tim will love it.
Once we had our fill of the trains, we made our way to the "whale." It may seem like a naff imitation of the London Eye, but rather than crawling around once, like the Eye, it is run at normal speed, like a traditional Ferris wheel. The view is wonderful. From the top, you can see not only the entire city of York, but the surrounding countryside. There's also a bird's eye view of the working, city train station. The rail lines run right by the Railway Museum. Another plus to the Yorkshire wheel is that the price is a fraction of the cost of the London Eye.
When our "whale" ride had finished, we set off to see the city centre. All of us were feeling a bit lazy, so we decided to ride a "free," miniature tram into town, made up to look like a steam train. One was waiting to depart just as we came out of the museum. My boss soon discovered that there was a charge to ride the tram he thought was "free." We were looking forward to riding into town too much to quibble, at that point, so we paid up. I was starving and my boss promised to take us to a restaurant which had great hamburgers. We set off in search of this culinary paradise. During the ensuing search, we wandered the streets of the old town. The old buildings now house modern shops, pubs, and restaurants. Narrow roads are bordered on either side by Tudor style architecture. This will appeal more to Barbara. Just when my boss was about to give up and settle for any old restaurant, we stumbled across it. I was so hungry, I didn't even notice the name. I'd had nothing since my train ride in to Hull that morning and by this point, darkness had fallen. I think all I could manage to mumble by that point was "food, food, food!" When the waiter came to take our order, I opted for a "Cajun Burger," and a Coke. Our timing was great, because as we waited for our food to arrive, the restaurant, which was nearly empty when we came in, filled up in a matter of minutes.
After dinner, which was tasty, we agreed we'd walk back to the car. Having rested our tired feet during dinner, the walk didn't seem too bad. I fell asleep during the drive back to Withernsea. I needed to get some rest before my marathon, seven hour radio show, starting at Midnight. My boss paid me quite a compliment by telling Dave that he must listen to my show. He even offered to loan Dave a radio to enable him to do so. You can also listen, via the internet, at www.seasideradio.co.uk . My show, "Night Waves," starts at Midnight, Saturday night and runs till 7AM, Sunday morning, UK time. Those times are five hours earlier on the east coast of the US, and eight hours earlier on the west coast.

Stranded in Staines

Yesterday, I had an audition in London, at 11AM. I didn't want to ask the restaurant manager for an entire day off, so I came up with a more enticing proposal. I would come in to work early, at 6AM. I would work till 9:30AM, doing all of the food prep I usually do before noon. Then I would leave work, drive a rented car to London, do my audition, then race back to work and finish the day. I wouldn't need the day off, so everybody would be happy, right? As I expected, the manager accepted my deal.
In order to pull this off, I had to rent a car for a day. Unfortunately, the nearest car rental locations to where I live, like the ones in Bracknell town centre, close at 5:30PM. That's earlier than my bus brings me home. However, the rental agency locations at Heathrow Airport stay open late. I reserved a car at Heathrow. After work Thursday evening, I took the bus from Bracknell to Hammersmith. There, I caught the Piccadilly Line to Heathrow. At terminal 4, I picked up the Hertz courtesy bus, which deposited me at their offices on the airport ring road.
I had reserved a pre-paid rental online, at Hertz's website. They had quoted me the same rate for their smallest car, a Ford Ka or similar, as for the next size up, a Ford Fiesta or similar. With the price the same, I opted for the Fiesta. I might as well get as much car as I can for my money. Besides, I hate the Ka, which looks like a giant Flymo, electric lawnmower, to me. When I walked into the Hertz office at Heathrow, there were no other customers. Two guys were sat behind the counter, looking at me expectantly. Walking up, I said, "is it always this busy? Do I have to wait in queue?" They just laughed. I produced my voucher, license, and credit card, then waited while the inevitable computer records were filled out. To pass the time, I mentioned that I used to work for Hertz, back in 1986. They also noticed the button I wear, promoting Seaside Radio. I confessed that I do a weekly radio show. After a bit, the one processing my rental handed me the rental agreement. I initialed and signed in all the right places. He gave me the keys and told me the car was a Volkswagen.
As I walked outside, looking for my car, I wondered which Volkswagen model I would have. Something equivalent to a Ford Fiesta, I figured. I just hoped it wasn't a Polo. Reaching my spot, I thought something was wrong. I had the keys to a Volkswagen Beetle, convertible. When I opened the car door, I found out it was an automatic, as well. In Britain, you normally have to pay extra for an automatic and for a convertible. Here I had both. The rental agent must have upgraded me. This was a far cry from a Ford Fiesta. Okay, so I probably wouldn't need a convertible in Britain, in the middle of November. Still the car was peppy, had power everything, as well as a good stereo. I drove home enjoying being behind the wheel again. I wondered, did they upgrade me because I do radio, or because I used to work for Hertz?
The next day, things went pretty smoothly. I did my audition, as planned. I then went back to the restaurant and finished my afternoon work. When I got home for work, I was exhausted. The car was due back at 10PM. I decided to have a nap. I could sleep for a bit, then wake up, watch "Eastenders," then get the car back by 10. After setting my alarm, I went to bed. I really enjoyed sleeping. Suddenly, I sat up in bed. "What time is it?" I thought. Checking my clock, I discovered, to my horror, that it was a quarter to ten.. Panic struck. "How could I make it to the airport in time?
Throwing on some clothes, I raced to Heathrow. By the time I returned the car, it was 10:30PM. I was a half an hour late, but nothing was said. I then faced the challenge of getting back to Bracknell. Originally, I expected to be at Heathrow early, so I could take the bus back. The bus is cheaper, but the last bus leaves at 10:30. There is a train that leaves Waterloo Station at 11:30PM. I planned on intercepting it at Richmond, which would buy me a little more time.
When I got off the District Line train, at Richmond, there was a train already waiting going westbound. I ran over the overpass and managed to just make it in the doors as they were closing, I was home free, or so I thought. The display board indicated this train was terminating at Staines. I figured they must be doing some night track work further on and would send us by coaches. When we reached Staines, I saw railway staff putting passengers into cabs. Getting in queue and listening, I discovered that all the passengers seemed to be heading toward London. When it was my turn, I asked about arrangements for passengers headed toward Reading. One of the staff members told me the last train for Reading had gone already. They were putting eastbound passengers into taxis, at the train company's expense, because there was a security alert at Reading station. No eastbound trains were leaving the station. The taxis were being provided for eastbound people only. If I wanted one, I'd have to pay myself. Upon my enquiry, I was quoted more money than I had.
Since his return from Italy, Nando had bought another car. I tried sending him a text. "Where are you?" I asked. He sent me a text back, stating that he was over his girlfriend's for the night. No way he would help, then. I then tried to work out how far Bracknell is from Staines. Surely it couldn't be that far? I decided to try walking. While I walked along the roadside, I tried hitch hiking. I felt hungry, as I hadn't had my dinner. When I stumbled on the Staines McDonald's. I treated myself to a Big Mac meal. Hunger abated, I resumed walking.
Over an hour went by, when I started seeing signs for Eggham, the next town along the rail line, after Staines. Walking the paths late at night had been surprisingly enjoyable, but it was getting late and I felt tired. I'd have a rest when I got to Eggham. By the time I finally reached Eggham train station, I was exhausted. It had also taken me over an hour and a half. I decided to give up my ambition to walk to Bracknell. There was no choice but to stay there till the trains started running again, in the morning. Just my luck, the weather was freezing cold. I put up with the cold as long as I could, then strolled over to a convenience store which was still open. I spent ages in there, trying to get warm. On my way back to the train station, I slept in a phone booth, in order to save myself from freezing. At least it was dry in there, as it started to rain while I was in the booth.
Once the trains started running again, I caught the first one west. I took it all the way to Reading and commenced my northward ride to Yorkshire. I didn't have my usual food with me, but I did have my CDs. The show must go on!

Avoid Midland Mainline

Last night, I was on my way to Withernsea, as in my habit. For weeks, I have been taking this overnight series of five trains. This journey includes a four hour wait at Sheffield. As I have on previous occasions, I went out to the late night restaurant, across the street from Sheffield Station, to buy a Coke. Besides getting a cold drink, it gives me change for the bus in Hull, in the morning. I rushed back to the station, to get into the waiting room on platform 2, before the Station house closes. The Sheffield Station building closes between 2AM and 4:20AM, for some odd reason. I think it's supposedly so the station can be cleaned, although Leeds Station stays open all night and they manage to clean it.
As I re-entered the station building and walked toward the stairs to the platforms, some geezer asked me where I was going. The fact that he spoke to me at all was disturbing enough. This dude was dressed in some sort of uniform and was the guy who usually locked the doors when the station closed. It was 1:48AM and there was a train departing for Manchester Airport at 1:50. It's the last train before the station closes. I should have just lied and claimed I was going for that one, but, unfortunately, my first inclination is to be honest. Instead, I tried to through him off with a vague answer. "To the train," I said.
"The station's closed," he said, coming over to me.
"Not yet," I pointed out. There was still a few minutes before it closed. I started to walk on toward the platform. He blocked my way, repeating that the station was closed. I confessed that I was going to the waiting room on the platform, but he said I had to leave, as the station was closed. I then said that I make this journey every week and I always am able to wait in the waiting room on the platform. He responded by claiming that never happens and he's there every week. "Then where were you last week, because I was there last week, along with several other people, and there was no sign of you," I pointed out. He then admitted that he'd been off last week. I tried taking the offensive and pointed out that he'd lied to me, when he said he was always there and no one waited in the waiting room. I pointed out that I was the customer and I have a ticket, with a four hour layover. I wanted to wait inside the waiting room, as I have done, previously, rather than out in the cold. He responded by shouting over me that the station was closed and if I didn't leave immediately, he'd call security.
I looked him in the eye and accused him of being a useless jobsworth. He didn't like that. He then retorted with a claim that if I had been "civil" toward him, he might have let me go, but now I had to leave. Now, he'd shown no previous indication that things were negotiable. If he could let me stay in the waiting room, then how dare he play a little Hitler and accost me in the first place? I told him he was useless and people like him were the reason that customer service in Britain has a terrible reputation. Before leaving, I wrote his name down and told him I would be taking this further. I pointed out that I am a member of the media and would be mentioning him and the company he works for, Midland Mainline, in unflattering ways, on my radio show. Sadly, I have misplaced his name, since then, so I have not been able to fire off an angry letter to his boss.
That reminds me, I asked him for the name of his boss, but he said he didn't know it. "How can you not know the name of the person you report to?" I asked. He gave no reply other than to repeat that he didn't know the name of his boss. All I could note from his name tag was that he was the "duty manager." In any event, I left the station. Fortunately, it was much milder outside than it was the week before. When I returned at 4:20AM, low and behold, when I reached the waiting room, it had more people already waiting there than ever before. This included a group of drunks, being very noisy. So, they had managed to wait there, while the station was closed. In fact, this was the second week in a row that I had encountered drunks at the station. It seems that the duty manager was able to hassle sober customers, but did nothing about drunks. Also, there was a broken glass bottle on the waiting room floor, with spilled liquid, so, obviously, the waiting room hadn't been cleaned.
For the time being, I am going to try to avoid using Midland Mainline trains and stations, whenever possible. I advise you to do the same. So far, their trains have been unimpressive, looking old and dingy. They also seem to employ duty managers who could do more in the customer service department. Now, the big question is, should I pay more to avoid using Midland Mainline, or still use them when they are part of the cheapest connection?

Nando's Offer Fails

A couple of months ago, Nando offered to let me drive his car while he is away on holiday, in Italy, at the end of October. I was worried that he wouldn't be able to make good on his promise, when his car first broke down. Then he got someone to fix it and things started to look up. However, when I got back from Withernsea, this past weekend, it had stopped running again. I think he will scrap the car and buy another one, but he's not planning to do anything further about it till he gets back from Italy. That leaves me out in the cold. Things never seem to work out for me. First I get divorced, now this.

Slow

Researchers have determined that London is the slowest city in Europe. Traffic in the UK capital averages just 11.8 miles-per-hour. For years, I have suspected that London traffic is particularly bad. The traffic seems much worse than that in New York. One major problem is that the city is so old. The roads are not laid out in any sort of pattern, but seem to go this way and that, like a twisted mound of spaghetti. I think a lot of London was built back when there was only horse-drawn traffic.
New York City streets follow a pattern. Through most of Manhattan, streets go east and west, while avenues go north and south. Most roads there are one way, alternating direction. Additionally, lower numbered streets are in the south, with numbers getting higher as you travel North. The north-south avenues are very wide, with several lanes of traffic. Even the streets are more than twice the width of typical London streets. With such simplicity, almost no one who lives in New York owns an atlas of the city. By contrast, every Londoner owns a London A-Z atlas. It's virtually impossible to find your way around without one.
London traffic is hindered by the absence of any cross-city motorway. Thus, there's no quick way to get from the west side of town to the east. Some roads turn ninety degrees, then dead end, leaving a driver to follow a very convoluted path to navigate on his way. When you add up the traffic, the congestion charge and the difficulty, and expense, of finding parking in central London, if I lived in the city, I wouldn't bother owning a car. As far as the slow average speed goes, maybe everyone could just hurry up ands raise the average?

Late Buses

Lately, I have been taking the second bus from Bracknell to Camberley, in the mornings. This bus arrives in Camberley just a few minutes before the bus for the office complex, where the restaurant I work at for my day job is located. For a long time, I was worried that if I took this second bus, I might miss the bus from Camberley to work. The downside of taking the first bus is that I end up waiting half an hour in Camberley. Also, to catch it, I have to leave earlier, which results in less sleep, or getting less done in the morning. That wasted half hour annoyed me.
For a few months, I watched the second bus arrive just before my bus to work. It seemed to make it every day and the driver of my bus to work even thought I was taking it. Finally, a few weeks ago, I was so busy, I failed to make the first bus. I took the second one and it worked out fine. Without consciously intending to, I found myself falling into the routine of taking the second bus. All was well, until one day last week, when the bus was ten minutes late. I missed my connecting bus to work and ended up being late. This morning, it happened again! Should I force myself to start taking the earlier bus and end up spending half an hour sitting around, in Camberley? Or, should I continue taking the second bus and if I miss connect occasionally, so be it?

More or Less Drunks

Last night, I began my weekly trek to Withernsea, to do my radio show. My first connection is at Reading train station. This week, the Virgin Trains service to Birmingham New Street was significantly late. Many trains were late, most of them belonging to First Great Western, who are the biggest users of Reading Station. Over the public address system, there was an announcement that delays were being caused by "congestion at Reading Station." It was very cold and the good thing is that Reading provides heated waiting rooms on some of the main platforms. I had forgotten that it was the beginning of half-term holidays from school, so all travel services were busy.
We finally got underway, thirty minutes late. I was worried that this might cause me to miss my connection to Derby, at Birmingham New Street. I hoped the train would make up time on the journey. No such luck. As we got nearer to Birmingham, the service manager on the train announced that a request was being made of Central Trains to hold their 11:10PM departure for Nottingham, till we arrived. That was the one I needed to go to Derby. As we slowed for our approach to New Street Station, the manager announced that Central Trains had agreed to wait. What a relief! He advised that they were expecting seven passengers from our Virgin train, so that we should rush to platform 7A. Once they saw that seven people had boarded, the train would depart.
Rushing through the station, I managed to get ahead of almost everyone else, except for one couple, in front of me. These twits managed to get behind an intoxicated couple on the stairs, down to platform 7A, who were moving very slowly. We all bunched up behind them. The intoxicated couple looked back at this mass of people bunched up behind them, seemingly oblivious to the delay they were causing. "Hurry up!" I shouted, in exasperation. Finally, I was down on the platform, but there was a new problem. There were two trains standing at the platform. One was the one I needed and the other the next train waiting to depart that platform. Which was which? I took a guess and boarded the nearest one. On board, I asked a woman if it was the train to Nottingham? She said she didn't know. Oh for Pete's sake! How could you be on a train and not know where it's going? Just in time, the train guard announced that it was, indeed, the Nottingham train. I'd made it.
In Derby, I had about forty minutes till my train to Sheffield. I needed to pee, so I walked over to platform 1, where the toilets are located. As I walked up to them, a cleaner said, "the toilets are locked up, mate." I don't know which annoyed me more, the fact that the toilets were locked, or that ridiculous Midlands accent the cleaner spoke to me in. And I hate being called "mate," by a total stranger. How stupid, locking the toilets when there are still trains arriving and departing. I'd have to wait and use the toilet on the train. I made my way back to platform 2, to wait for the Sheffield train. At least the waiting room was very warm. It was so cold outside, I was worried about my four hour wait in Sheffield. Usually, I spent two hours in a late night restaurant across from the train station, having a Coke. It's heated in there. However, they close an hour before the train station reopens. Normally, I spend the last hour walking around, but despite wearing a warm sweater, it was freezing out.
On previous trips, I noticed that every time I went into the waiting room for my platform in Sheffield, at 4:30AM, there were one or two people already in there. Was it possible to spend the whole time in the platform waiting room, even while the station is closed? I decided to find out. I went to the restaurant and bought a Coke, then made my way back toward the station. On my way back, I encountered a drunk man, hanging out near the top of the stairs down to the station entrance. He said something to me, but I just grunted a response and kept on my way. Once inside the main station hall, I ran into another drunk man. As I tried to walk past him, he grabbed my arm and asked me directions. "Don't touch me," I said, rather sharply. He let go, then I said, "I'm not from this country. You'd better ask someone who is." I turned and continued on my way to platform 2.
The drunk man shouted after me, "what d'ya mean you're not from this country?" Then he swore at me. I stopped. Turning on him, I said, "if you weren't drunk, I'd kick your ass." As he tried to comprehend what was happening and mumbled curses to himself, I continued on my way. I'd run into a lot fewer drunks this week, but the ones I did come across were a lot more trouble. I succeeded in staying in the waiting room, even while the station closed. While it was warmer than being out on the street, Sheffield had the only waiting room I'd encountered which wasn't heated. I sat there in my coat, shivering. I could have used a hot tea.

Nando Too!

Nando's car has broken down! Recently, he was left stranded. Someone told him he had a blown head gasket, which is usually an expensive repair, possibly more than he paid for the car. That leaves our household totally carless, at the moment. Hitler's Nephew doesn't own a car and Nando and I own ones that are inert. Hitler's Nephew does own a motorcycle, which he conned someone out of, but for some strange reason, he's put it in our back garden and doesn't use it. It's been there for over a month, since before he went on vacation. I suspect it's because he's too much of a weenie to ride it in the winter. I wish I could use it, but since I can't stand him and we are not speaking, that's not going to happen. In any case, Nando's not happy about not having a serviceable car. "I don't know how you do it," he said, commenting on the fact that I've gone four months on public transport. At this point, I don't have much choice.