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?

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?

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.

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?

Christmas With a Difference

If Christmas 2007 had been typical of the last five years, I would have been facing another holiday season alone. Nando, my racist Italian housemate, went home to Italy. Hitler's Nephew, my other housemate, went home to Austria, thankfully. So, it would have been sitting home, watching satellite TV, sleeping, and fooling around on the internet. However, Christmas was different, this time. For the first time since I moved to England, nine and a half years ago, my good friends, Tim and Barbara, came to visit.
Not only didn't I spend the holiday season alone, but I received presents. I planned so much for their visit. I managed to carry out some of it and other things fell by the wayside. Tim and Barbara joined me for my big Christmas radio show, the night of the 22 December till the morning of the 23rd. If you missed that broadcast, you missed the best one since I have been doing my radio show. We went to the National Railway Museum, in York, on the 23rd. After spending the day in York, it was back to Bracknell. I had rented a car for the weekend, which was due back on Christmas Eve. The rental agency office closed early and they were shut when we arrived. We ended up keeping the car till Boxing Day (26 December), which worked out better for us anyway.
On Boxing day, we went to Paris. That's Paris, France, not Paris, Texas. Despite my best efforts to get us on the cheapest transportation alternative (the bus), Barbara booked us on Eurostar. At least it was more convenient. Although it was my third Eurostar round trip, it was my first one from the new departure point of St. Pancreas Station, in London. With the new, high-speed rail link in England, the trip should have been the quickest ever. Although I enjoyed speeds of 180 plus miles-per-hour, we had an unscheduled stop in Kent, due to "late running engineering works" in the Channel Tunnel. We ended up waiting an hour! This added 50% to our journey time, to Paris.
This was my first visit to Paris at Christmas. Previously, I had visited the French capital in the summer. The Champs Elysees was lit beautifully, at night. We managed to do some of the things I missed on my first visit, including going to the top of the Eiffel tower, visiting the Louvre, and a Seine river cruise. We also went into Notre Dame and, at Barbara's insistence, went to Moulin Rouge. Personally, I thought Moulin Rouge was overpriced and I don't really see the point in a bunch of women dancing with their tits out.
Back in the UK, we got another rental car. I drove my guests to see Stonehenge. On the way, we drove by my old house, where my evil ex-wife, the Black Queen, lives. That felt odd. On New Year's Eve, we spent the day finishing off London sightseeing. To satisfy Barbara, we went shopping in Harrod's. This was my first time actually going inside the famous store. They have the most beautiful sales staff I have ever seen. Half of them look like models! I tried to take my visitors to see Jordan Marsh, for the evening, but we couldn't get in. The venue was sold out. We made it back into central London in time to see the fireworks on the Thames, at midnight. I was surprised at how few texts I received as the new year came in. I dropped off Tim and Barbara at Heathrow, in the early evening of New Year's Day. It was great having them visit, although not very restful for me. I returned the rented car after dropping them at Terminal 4, then it was back to Bracknell, by train. Now it's the new year. What will 2008 bring for me?

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!

Nando Returns

Tonight, I was sitting in the lounge, watching TV, when I started wondering when Nando would return from his trip to Italy. He said he'd be gone for twelve days, I think. He left on October 28th, so...ummmm...he should be back any moment, I thought to myself. Maybe, even tonight. Within a few minutes of me thinking that, there was the sound of someone putting a key into the front door lock. Who would it be coming in? Hitler's Nephew? The Landlord? Nando?
I looked to my right, towards the door. Nando stepped through the threshold, with a large suitcase. He looked well rested. Even though I have enjoyed having undisputed control over the TV remote, while Nando's been away, I am pleased to see him return. "What are you doing here?" he asked, in heavily accented English.
"I live here," I responded.
"You're not going up to do the radio, this weekend?" he probed further.
"I got a good price on a Saturday train, this week," I explained. After hearing my explanation, Nando adopted the look of someone satisfied. I asked if he enjoyed his trip and how his mama, and sister, were. "Yes," "good," and "good," were the replies I got back. He proceeded to take his heavy suitcase upstairs, to his room. It would be full of food, as his mama always sends him back to England with loads of food. I don't think she realizes that they have invented supermarkets, here in England. She's more like Christopher Columbus' mother, sending him off to explore. "Christopho, taka dis meat wid you, fa da tripa. Youse neva know wat mite appen," I imagine Columbus' mother saying. Wait a minute...why would she speak English with an Italian accent? She wouldn't. Like Nando's mama, she'd only speak Italian.

A Hole in the Ground

Yesterday, the Station Manager of Seaside Radio took me to see "the Bunker." During my time traveling to Withernsea, I have repeatedly observed signs for "the Bunker." The Station Manager had promised to take me to see it, several times. So, what is "the Bunker?" It's an underground, military installation, built during the Cold War. It's proper name is RAF Holmpton and as he drove us to the location, my boss let me in on a surprise. Not only were we going to see it, we were going on a guided tour of it.
The tour didn't turn out to be a private one, just for us. It was a regularly scheduled tour. When we arrived at the location, I wasn't expecting there to be too many people desiring to go on such a tour. As my boss backed into a parking space, I observed one other vehicle, to our left. It was an old van, with a dark haired individual behind the wheel. As we were early, we stayed sitting in the car for a while. Shortly after our arrival, another car backed into the space to our right. It was a late model saloon and occupied by a well-dressed couple. I joked that the van on our left contained the Bulgarian spies, while the car to our right was MI6. My boss seemed less than amused. He entertains numerous conspiracy theories, including one where there is all sorts of secret activity going on at this base.
Once my boss had finished eating lunch in the car, we walked over to the building which houses the entrance. Looking innocuous, the building is small and almost looks like a house. My boss asked the fellow manning the ticket window for "one adult and one American." His astonishingly funny, Northern Irish sense of humor was in full effect. The old man, in RAF camouflage fatigues, wisely charged for two adults. He directed us to a waiting room and my boss asked me if he should buy an official tour guide book. My recommendation was that he should not. We joined the few people already in the waiting area, which included the Bulgarian spies. There was a TV showing a continuous loop of old fashioned TV announcements advising the public what to do in the event of a nuclear attack. This set the mood.
Before the tour started, I was surprised at how many people turned up. There must have been a couple of dozen. Our tour guide turned out to be the same old man who had sold us the tickets. He announced the beginning of the tour, then directed us down a stairwell. Down, underground, we went. Once on the lower level, we proceeded down a long corridor, designed to dissipate the pressure of a nuclear blast wave. Our guide took us to numerous rooms and displays, where we could see the facility's equipment. Included was a nuclear warhead. At several points along our path, we sat and watched short films, detailing various historical points about the base. Originally built as a radar base, RAF Holmpton later became the headquarters for managing RAF supplies in a a post nuclear attack scenario. Essentially a hole in the ground, 100 feet down, the base facility was built upon a base of shale, then encased in thick concrete walls. It was designed to withstand a near miss by a nuclear warhead. Of course the Russians learned all about it and supposedly had targeted two nuclear warheads on that very facility. Not only would a direct hit have obliterated the base, but it would have turned the surrounding area into a nuclear wasteland, including beautiful Withernsea. I learned that during the Cold War, over 100 nuclear warheads were thought to be targeted on the United Kingdom. A full scale attack was expected to kill 40 million people, which was the majority of the British population.
The final film we were shown included the portrayal of the effects of a full scale nuclear attack on Britain. A series of underground outposts around Britain would be manned by teams whose task was to measure the fallout and report conditions after an attack. In these post-Cold War times, when the threat of nuclear war has faded, it was very sobering to be reminded of how the world once lived in fear of nuclear annihilation. It's a good place to take young people, who have never lived through the Cold War, so that they can see what the world almost came to. There were several children on the tour. During the whole afternoon, the only military person we observed was the same old man who had sold us the tickets. When the tour ended, I pointed out that the base seemed harmless. Undaunted, my boss pointed out that we hadn't seen all of the underground facility. He insisted on buying an official guide book. The souvenirs were sold, of course, by the same man who was our tour guide. As we walked back to the car, my poss pointed out the Sky satellite dish on a mast sticking out of the ground, above the bunker. He took it as proof that the base was currently being used for some secret activity. My suggestion was that the old man just likes watching Sky, like the rest of us.

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?

Sunny Autumn Saturday

Yesterday morning, I woke up from a nice nap on the Northern train to Hull. Looking sleepily at the windows, something struck me as odd. The windows looked fuzzy. My just awaking mind struggled to come to grips with the visual data. The train rocked and seemed to be proceeding unusually slow. I yawned and scratched my head. "Why does the view look so weird?" I thought to myself. Suddenly, it came to me. Fog! We were traveling through thick fog.
By the time I got to Hull, the sun had just risen. Because of the fog, my train had arrived a few minutes late. I rushed to the gate for my bus to Withernsea. It would have to use gate 36! Thankfully, I made it. After buying my ticket, I climbed upstairs to the upper deck, taking my usual place in the front row. I love the view up there and since I ride to the last stop, it's worth the climb.
Once out of Hull, I could see patches of fog hovering over farmers' fields, along our route. The sky was clear and the sun slowly rose, higher and higher. Its radiation would burn off the fog as the morning progressed. I arrived at Seaside Radio and joined the on-air presenter in the studio. He had his 13-year-old son with him and was letting the boy choose music, as well as speak on air. They finished at 10AM and the lovely Susan Dukes took over. She turned up looking even better than the previous week. Her hair was freshly styled, make up immaculate, and she was even wearing a string of pearls. I teased her by reminding her that this was radio, not television. Susan still doesn't feel confident running the board, so she had the Station Manager, Justin, helping her. He closed the door to the studio, so she wouldn't be put off by the rest of us. I decided to walk the fellas out to their car.
Thinking I would only be outside for a moment, I left my jacket inside. During the hour and a half since I had arrived, the sun had made the day bright. It was warm enough that I didn't need my jacket. I walked with the father and son team, chatting to them. They went left, towards the sea, then left again, strolling along the road that parallels the beach. As we went further and further, I began to wonder how bloody far away from the station they had parked? Finally, I asked the father, "did you drive?"
"No," he said, "we walked." No wonder they hadn't stopped! I had inadvertently walked a couple of blocks from the station. I decided not to travel all the way to their house and bade them farewell. Turing around, I retraced my steps, back to Seaside Radio. I enjoyed the sound of the waves crashing against the shore and the smell of the sea. What a lovely autumn day.
The Justin had promised to take me sightseeing, but when I got back to the station, he told me something had come up and he wouldn't be able to, this weekend. He rushed off just after noon, so I went out into the sun again. I visited the outdoor market, which runs every Saturday. Then I tried walking to Tesco, to buy some drinks for my show. Although Justin claimed it wasn't a long walk to Tesco, I found it longer than I cared to indulge in. At least the weather was lovely. I saw a temperature sign which read 18 degrees, Celsius. I'm not quite sure how warm that is, as I was raised on Fahrenheit, but it seemed warm for the time of year. I wished every weekend could be that nice. Even the cashier at Tesco seemed in a good mood. I teased her a bit and she rewarded me with a big smile. So far, the women in Withernsea seem much friendlier than gals in London. I bought myself a cold bottle of Ribena drink, to refresh myself from my walk. I had worn my jacket, which turned out to have been a mistake. It was that warm. Sipping my blackcurrant juice drink, I made my way back to the station again. I'd done enough walking for one day.

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.

My Fellow Train Passengers

Every time I book a train ticket to Hull, which is the route I take to get to Withernsea, to perform my weekly radio show, I only seem to be able to get the cheapest fare on a Friday night, overnight routing. This route encompasses taking five trains, with four connections. The timing of the second and third connections places me right in the "witching hour," vis a vis people traveling from Friday night drinking sessions. In other words, I encounter a lot of drunks.
Last night was no exception. Quite the contrary, I think it may have been a record. First, on my second train, the Virgin Trains service to Birmingham New Street, during a stop in Coventry, or there abouts, a couple of dozen 20-somethings poured into the carriage I was sitting in. As it was around 10:30PM, these young men and women were on their way to Birmingham, for a night out hitting the clubs and pubs. Unfortunately for me and the few other people in the carriage, they appeared to have had a head start. Not only did they seem drunk already, they brought cans of beer with them. The boys were bad enough, but how could girls let themselves get in such a state? The amazing thing is that they were only at the beginning of their night. What state would they be in after hitting the nightlife of Birmingham? They were so loud, there was no opportunity for further sleep. Even though the ones sitting around me were the females, I still didn't enjoy their company. Drunken women just don't do it for me. I was happy none of them ended up throwing up on me.
Our arrival in Birmingham couldn't come fast enough for me, but when it did, I waited for the gang of young drunks to exit the train first. I let them clear off the platform before I got onto it. I made my way to platform 7A, for my next train, the 11:10PM to Nottingham, which stops at Derby, amongst other places. I, of course, get off at Derby. The platform was very full with other waiting passengers. I decided to stand near three beautiful, mixed race sisters, who were on their way home from a night out with their father. Sadly, the older two sisters seemed inebriated. At least the middle sister was quiet, sitting on a foot rail, with red eyes. The oldest and most talkative sister got into a conversation with a drunk couple, who spilled out onto the platform, near us, not long after my, sober, arrival. What a waste. I didn't move because the platform was so full and most of the other passengers seemed equally sauced. What is it about the British that so many of them find it necessary to become so inebriated on Friday nights? The girls' father was very dark skinned (kind of like Wesley Snipes) and I found it amusing when the man from the drunken couple asked the father how the girls could be his daughters, when they were lighter skinned (sort of Beyonce colored). The farther seemed shocked and offended. I thought "what do you expect, mate, talking to drunks?"
The train to Nottingham arrived late and was so full, I had to sit on one of the folding seats on the bulkhead, near the doors. To my right was a man with a baby in a stroller, and a dog. The dog was ugly, with tired, red eyes, which made him appear drunk, as well. Thankfully, man, baby, and dog got off at one of the early stops. The man walked in a way that led me to think he was either drunk, or tired. The baby remained asleep and I'm assuming he was just tired, but you never know around here.

On My Way

Leaving my preparation for my radio show till the day I left for Withernsea was probably not a good idea. When I got home from my day job, last night, I was tired and yet I had, seemingly, a million things to do. Originally, I had planned on taking a nap after work. That plan fell by the wayside. Instead, I was scrambling to email some songs I wanted to play, to the station. I was also listening to the station over the internet. It was the big re-launch and the first time I had he chance to hear it. The station manager was on the air.
For some reason, the audio files were extremely slow to load, when I was emailing them. It was taking too long! I still wanted to shower and have dinner, before catching my train, at 8:20PM. I also needed to place all my bets for the weekend, which involved getting the picks from Nando. After emailing two songs, I gave up. It was just taking too long. Having showered, I went downstairs to take my laundry off the line. Then Nando asked me to put a bet on, for him, on football. I didn't have time for it, if I was going to catch the bus to the train station. Thinking on my feet, I offered to do it, if Nando drove me to the train station, in his car. He agreed. That gave me enough extra time to have a quick meal.
I just managed to get Nando's bet placed and leave the house, with less than ten minutes till my train. Nando drives much slower than I do and as I sat in the passenger seat of his car, I found myself willing him to go faster. I literally just made it to the station platform as my train arrived. Once on board, I felt relaxed. All of a sudden, it hit me. In all the rushing, I had left some discs home I wanted for my show. Too late. It would have to wait for next time. Thus began a 12 hour journey, consisting of five trains and a bus, to get to Seaside Radio. I didn't mind. I was just excited to be back on radio, after 27 years and 9 months.

Best Laid Plans

After purchasing a ticket to travel by coach, within England, this weekend, I received a call, today, from my agent. This time, it was Emma on the phone. She asked me if I was available to work on a film shoot this Saturday and Sunday? In a flash, I recalled that I was due to leave Friday, after work, and return on Sunday evening. Without hesitation, I told Emma that I was available. She said she'd call back tomorrow and confirm things. I don't like to say no to my agent, as I have heard they don't offer clients as much work if they find you to be routinely unavailable. Besides, I need the money. After I got home, I called the friend I was supposed to visit and broke the news. We decided to keep our plans open until things were confirmed with the agency. The last time they told me I had work, they ended up telling me it was cancelled before the day.

Passport

I have had an expired passport for about a year and a half. At first, it didn't bother me much, because I couldn't afford to go anywhere anyway. Then little things started to get at me. I had a couple of offers to go away, where friends said they would pay my way, and I had to turn them down. I kept intending to renew it, but I had never done that when outside the USA, before. Looking into it, I learned I could renew by mail, through the US Embassy, here. The next barrier was money. I kept trying to build up enough room on my credit card to cover the charge, as you can't send cash when renewing by mail. It seemed that every time I cleared enough room on my card, I would run into a temporary shortfall and need to use my card again, to cover fuel to get to work.
Another obstacle was the photo. The Passport Service is very particular about the dimensions that the photo needs to be. Unfortunately, they are different than that required for British passports, so it's not as simple as going to a local shop offering passport photos. You need to find one who knows how to take ones which fit American standards. Then I caught a break. My artist friend, Jan, has a photo quality printer and photographic paper. She was able to take and print the photos for me, one afternoon.
Eventually, I was all set, then I found that I didn't have one of the forms I needed. As my printer isn't printing in black, at the moment, I got a close friend to print the form and mail it to me. More delay, but only a few days. Finally, I had everything...photos, room on my credit card, forms...I got it all together and stopped by the post office, after work. I arranged the special delivery, there and back, paid the charges for that, then sent it all off. Job done? Oh no! There was a postal strike the next day! Then another one on the following Monday. Bloody unions! The Embassy advises it takes about fourteen working days. They send my application back to America, so the passport can be printed over there. That doesn't include public holidays, or postal strikes. I tried to be patient.
I figured it was due any day now. Then, yesterday, when I got home from work, I found a notice that they tried to deliver it, but as it was special delivery, someone needed to sign for it. Of course, I was at work, Nando was away in Italy, and who knows where Hitler's Nephew was, but no one signed for it. So, it went back to the main delivery post office in town, where it would remain until I picked it up. Problem. The post office closes at 5:30PM, weekdays. Now that I am on the bus, I don't usually get home until 5:35. What to do? I could wait till Saturday, but I had tentative plans to go away for the weekend. Besides, waiting isn't my style. I decided to ask the Manager at work to agree to me working for half my lunch break, then I could leave fifteen minutes earlier. By leaving that bit earlier, I could catch a bus from work that is forty-five minutes earlier, making it home in time to get to the post office. Simple enough plan. He'd just agreed to a similar arrangement, yesterday, so I could go to London for taping "the Friday Night Project." It should be no problem.
At work this morning, I asked the restaurant Manager, as a formality, if my fifteen for fifteen deal was okay. He said no. I must have looked funny, as I was caught completely off guard by that one. I asked him why, but he just started spouting some nonsense, accusing me of taking advantage and crap like that. Let's just say he was being awkward. I tried reasoning with him, explaining I needed to pick up my passport. He suggested I wait till Saturday. I explained that I was supposed to be going away this weekend, so Saturday wouldn't be any good. I didn't expressly clarify that my trip this weekend was entirely within the UK, so that I didn't need my passport for it. Let him think it was international, so that I did need it, straight away. He was not moved in the slightest. He almost seemed to take a perverse pleasure in messing up my plans. I gave him a sarcastic, "thanks a lot," and walked out of his office, having wasted enough time.
More determined than ever, I came up with a plan B. I worked through my entire lunch and tried to finish all my work before 3:30. If everything was finished, I could leave. It was the 3:30 bus I needed to catch. I felt so annoyed with the Manager and I threw that annoyance into my work. I worked like a bandit, racing against the clock. I ended up finishing everything except cleaning up my work area, by 3PM! I started looking for things to do, so he couldn't say, later, that I left something undone. Finding nothing, I helped Pritam with his work. He looked at me like I was nuts. Maybe he felt guilty, because he never helps me. I waited to be sure that the chefs didn't suddenly come up with something for me to do, at the last minute. All the chefs left early, at 3:10, so I started cleaning my work area. By 3:20, I was out the door, with ten minutes to spare.
Catching the earlier bus, as planned, I waited for my connecting bus, in Camberley. It seemed to take ages for one to come, but one eventually did. I fell asleep on the bus, as I usually do. Awaking with a start, I discovered we were in a traffic jam. Great! I looked at my watch. It was getting later and later. By the time we reached the end of the line, in Bracknell Town centre, it was 5:10PM. I had just twenty minutes left to get to the main delivery branch, which was in an industrial area, heading out of town, towards Reading. My original plan was to walk, as I didn't know if any buses went that way. I was worried that if I started walking, I might not make it there in twenty minutes. It might take thirty minutes to go that distance. Looking at the taxis in the taxi rank, I decided what the heck, I would spring for a cab to get there on time. I normally don't like the expense of taxis, but I figured I would only pay for one way. I could always walk back, as I wouldn't be in a rush then. This close to my goal, I wasn't letting anything stop me.
The taxi ended up costing me £4.80, but it got me there with ten minutes to spare. I joined a queue of people picking up stuff. When it was my turn, I handed the counter worker two cards. Not only was my passport there, but a box of DVDs I had ordered from Amazon, as well. I was able to pick up both on the same trip. The man seemed to take forever to bring me my stuff. I kept re-reading the signs which warned that postal workers should not be subjected to either verbal, or physical, abuse. As I waited for Mr. Slow, I chuckled to myself at the need for the signs. Maybe this guy was so used to striking, he'd forgotten how to work fast. He re-appeared with my box of DVDs, then disappeared again. More waiting. Finally, he returned with the special delivery package, containing my new passport. I signed for it, then made my way outside.
Once outside, in the sunshine, I immediately opened the package. I wanted to see it with my own eyes. There it was...my brand new passport. No stamps in it. I put it in my pocket and started walking. Once again, I was free to travel to the ends of the Earth. For now, I was content just to make it back to my local residence. This was my third passport, since I got my first one, when I was 26. Many Americans never get passports. My mother, for example, has never had one, nor did her mother. In Britain, it's more common for most folks to have their passports. After all, France is closer to England than Washington, D.C. is to New York. While people in the States go to Florida for a little sunshine Brits tend to go to Spain. Things are starting to change in the States. Due to all this "war on terror," police state nonsense, Americans will now require passports when travelling between the USA and Canada, or Mexico. That didn't used to be the case, as common forms of ID used to be accepted. The new regulations are creating additional demand for US passports and I hear there is a huge backlog for first passports. Fortunately for me, I was only renewing, so I wasn't affected by the backlog.
When I reached the main road, I spotted a most welcome sight. Bus shelters! I ambled along to the nearest one, on the side of the road heading towards the town centre. The next bus would be along in ten minutes. I sat down and waited. Sod walking all the way. When it did come, I managed to use my weekly ticket to work to gain a free ride back to Bracknell's bus station, where I could connect with my usual bus home. Sometimes things do go my way. Now I need to save up some money for an international trip. It's been three years since my last trip abroad. That's way too long.

Honeymooners: the Black Queen Story Part 5

I wasn't able to go on a honeymoon immediately after getting married, because I had to get a document stuck in my passport, granting me leave to remain in the UK. I had to acquire this document before I left the country. There was another impediment to our honeymoon: my wife's ex-husband. When she asked him to have the kids so we could go away, he refused. D---a was upset that he was being so spiteful. I decided to turn it around on him. I asked her if the kids had ever been to America. She confirmed they had not. So, I suggested that we take them with us. That way they'd remember their first trip to America as being with us. My wife agreed, so that's what we did.
After I sorted out the bureaucratic details, D---a got the boyfriend of a friend of hers, who worked for British Airways, to book us some discounted tickets, through their staff travel office. I wanted to take my bride and her two bairns to New York City and Washington, D.C. There was no discounted space available to New York, or to Washington, so I suggested trying Philadelphia, which is halfway between. Sure enough, there was space available to Philly. The four of us flew from London's Heathrow airport, about a week after our wedding.
At Philadelphia International Airport, I picked up a rental car. I selected a big, Pontiac, Grand Prix. I like a car with power and it had room for the four of us and our luggage. I headed south, towards D.C. I drove till we felt like stopping. I wanted to get us out of the Philly area, because I knew from experience that motels would be cheaper once we were out of the big city area. Somewhere in Delaware, along Interstate 95, my new family informed me they were all hungry. I saw a sign for a Holiday Inn with reasonable rates, advertised as being off the next exit. I stopped there as Holiday Inns are known to be "family friendly." The kids could stay free, sharing a room with us. A room was available, so we checked in and put our bags in the room. After that, we made a beeline to the hotel restaurant. Once the family were fed and watered, we went back to our room. The kids wanted to go swimming, but we were feeling tired. My wife and I advised them that we should have an early night. After all, it was five hours later back home.
In the morning, we had breakfast, then I indulged the children in a dip in the pool. The pool area was deserted, other than the four of us, but the kids didn't seem to mind. By lunch time, we were back on the road. Once we reached the suburbs of D. C., I looked for an inexpensive place to say. Spotting a Days Inn just outside the District, in Maryland, I stopped there. I knew prices would be cheaper there than they would be actually within D.C. After settling into our room, the kids began a familiar refrain. They wanted to go swimming again. We all got into our swimming costumes and headed for the pool. When we got there, I had a strange experience.
Another family came to use the pool. They had a boy who was about 12-14 years old. He took one look at my beautiful, eight-year-old stepdaughter and shot straight for her. If it had been a cartoon, he would have left a smoke trail. My wife found the resultant look on my face hilarious. I was not happy. I scowled at the boy, who seemed to take no notice. To make matters worse, he looked and sounded like a particularly low class type of American. His sleazy appearance and accent only added to a trailer-trash image. Without any idea where it had come from, I was suddenly flush with a feeling of, "he's not good enough for my little girl." The only problem was, she's not actually my little girl. I was just her newly crowned stepfather. I spent the rest of our poolside afternoon smouldering, much to the continued amusement of my bride. When we finally made our move to go to our room, the sleazy boy actually had the nerve to ask MY stepdaughter for our room number. The innocent little lass walked up to me and gently asked what our room number was. Thank goodness she didn't remember it! "We don't give our room number to strangers," I advised her. I felt some slight relief that we wouldn't be disturbed by horny fourteen-year-old boys calling our room in the middle of the night. As we walked into the building, I gave the boy one last, withering glance, as if to say, "she's only 8, for Pete's sake!"
Part of my trip itinerary was that we would visit Washington while the Libertarian Party National Convention was on. Formerly, I had been a member of the Party's National Committee (LNC). My political career included two terms as Vice-Chair of the Libertarian Party of New York State, 1993 Libertarian candidate for Mayor of New York City, Official Liaison from the Party to the Howard Stern Campaign, and candidate for the nomination for Governor of New York. I was quite well known amongst convention delegates and I wanted to take the opportunity of introducing my new family. As a former member of the LNC, I had received an invitation to attend a show on the first evening of the convention, performed by the Capital Steps. The opportunity of taking my family to a free show was too good to resist. It was a thrilling night out for the kids, who weren't used to being taken to such things. I was also proud of my new family and wanted to show them off.
Altogether, we spent three days in the D.C area. I took my family sightseeing, just as I had been taken sightseeing on my first ever trip, which was to Washington, when I was 10 years old. On our last night in the D.C. area, which also happened to be July 3rd, my birthday, we went to Baltimore's Inner Harbor, for dinner. On the 4th of July, we checked out of the Days Inn and began the drive to New York. We stopped in Philadelphia, halfway, around lunch time. I took the family to see Independence Hall, where the Declaration of Independence was signed, back in 1776. We watched some ceremony commemorating the event, which was part of Philly's 4th of July celebrations. After a bite to eat, we got back on the road north. It was to be the children's first time seeing New York.
Speaking of firsts, I had arranged for us to stay at my family's home, on Long Island. It would be my grandmother's first time meeting the children, but my mother's first time meeting them and their mother. My mother's a bit eccentric and she has a history of avoiding meeting my girlfriends. After I got engaged, D---a pleaded with me that she wanted to meet my mother, who was to be her future mother-in-law. I told her I would try my best and passed on her request to my mother. With a stubbornness that is my mother's trademark, she refused D---a's quite reasonable request. I implored her to change her mind, for my sake, but all she would agree to is that she would speak to D---a over the phone. It was arranged for the last trip D---a made to visit me in America, before we got married. My mother left the house and then called. When I answered, she stated she was ready to speak to my fiancee. After I handed the phone to D---a, my mother proceeded to tell her that she shouldn't marry me. Gee, thanks mom! Fortunately, or unfortunately, D---a didn't heed my mother's advice. Now that we'd been married, my mother was prepared to meet my wife, face to face. In a strange about face, once my mother had met D---a, she acted very friendly. She acted like she liked D---a more than she liked me. My grandmother and mother admired the children as they played in our back garden. So far, this was the closest they had come to having great-grandchildren and grandchildren, respectively. They were quite beautiful children, so it was easy to admire them. My folks also saw me in a different light. This was their first time seeing me taking responsibility for a family of my own. They were both quite surprised at how well I took to the role. Neither of them had been aware that for all of my adult life, I had longed to be a family man.
Staying at my family's home saved us the cost of a hotel. Using it as a base of operations, we took the children to see the sights of New York, which I had previously shown their mother. This included a trip to the top of the then still standing, World Trade Center, as well as a visit to Liberty Island. On our first night, we started off by going to see the 4th of July fireworks display, over the East River. Most children love fireworks and the New York City display, sponsored by Macy's, is one of the largest in the world. I tried to expose the children to as many delightful experiences as possible. Among these were ice cream parlours, hot buttered movie popcorn, sidewalk vended pretzels and hot dogs, and F.A.O. Schwartz toy store. This was more their honeymoon than my wife's. We even managed to squeeze in a trip to Six Flags Great Adventure theme and safari park. After three nights, it was time to return to the UK. We said goodbye to my surviving biological family and the house I grew up in. I drove us back to Philadelphia, to catch our flight back to my new home.

A Train Going Into a Tunnel: the Black Queen Story Part 3

For the previous part of this story, see "A Long Distance Relationship: the Black Queen Story Part 2," 14 April, 2007.

Upon my return to America, from Christmas with D---a, in 1997, I was committed to marrying her. I started thinking about where I might propose. I wanted to do something different than I did when I proposed to my first fiancee, Kelly Lucas. If D---a found out, one day, that I had recycled my proposal from a previous girlfriend, I was sure she'd hit the roof. I wracked my brain, trying to come up with an idea. My inspiration came from watching the film, "Mission Impossible." The climax of the film takes place on a TGV train, between London and Paris. As far as I know, the TGV didn't run between London and Paris, but the Eurostar does! The proverbial light bulb went off in my head. I decided to propose to D---a on the Eurostar, while it travelled under the English Channel. To me, this signified our living in two different countries, so I would propose in this "international" space.
Next, I turned toward buying a ring. I wanted to get a bigger diamond than I had bought for my first fiancee. Visiting a well known jeweller in America, I picked out a stone and a setting. Once I had the ring, I set about organizing things. I suggested to D---a that we go on a trip, via Eurostar. The Eurostar only went to Brussels and Paris. Both of us had visited Paris before, so we agreed that Brussels would be the destination of choice. D---a is good at organizing things, so once I got the ball rolling, she grabbed the bit between her teeth and brought my idea to fruition (the bit between her teeth metaphor was not meant to imply that she looked like a horse...she was a beauty!). She visited her local travel agent and called me with a proposed itinerary. I let her pick the hotel, but I insisted that we should opt for "First Class" on the Eurostar. She tried to dissuade me, but I was paying for it, so I got my way.
When I flew over to London in advance of our Eurostar trip, my future father-in-law, D---a's step-father, picked me up at the airport. I was so excited about my impending proposal that I showed him the ring and took him into my confidence. For once, he did the right thing and kept my secret. On the next Friday, D---a and I took the local train from her village to London's Waterloo Station, the departure point for Eurostar. For anyone who doesn't know, Eurostar is a high-speed train, which runs between London and Continental Europe, through the Channel Tunnel. There are two classes of service, "standard" and "first." We had a Friday evening train and when we boarded, we found that our first class seats were in a virtually empty train carriage. The only other occupant was a ginger haired man, travelling on his own. The majority of Eurostar travellers go standard class. Ironically, even though there was only one other person in our carriage, he was seated in the row right in front of us. Why couldn't he be seated at the opposite end of the carriage? Despite my desire to be engaged to D---a, the nervousness set in. Even though I was an experienced proposer, I found myself hesitating, just as I had 12 years earlier, during my first proposal. I wanted to time it to occur while we were actually under the English Channel. We were moved to a seat at the end of the carriage, for our meal service. That would have been a good time to propose, away from our fellow traveler's ears, but the tables for our food were in the way and I wanted to do the whole one knee bit. After dinner, we moved back to our original seats. I kept fingering the box with the ring, in my pocket. If I didn't get on with it, we'd be out of the Channel Tunnel and the moment would be lost. I made a clumsy move to one knee, in the space between our seats and the ones in front of us. Dragging the ring box from my pocket, I asked D---a to marry me. Thankfully, she said, "yes."
The man in front of us heard everything. After I re-seated myself, he stood up abruptly and rushed off toward the other end of the train carriage. He disappeared through the door at the end and I presumed he had an urgent need to visit the toilet. I shared my theory with D---a and we both laughed out loud. After a short time, the man returned and sat down again. About five minutes later, the hostess came into the carriage and approached us. She had a bottle of champagne and informed us that the man in front of us had arranged the champagne for us. He spoke up and said he couldn't help but overhear, then offered his congratulations. We thanked him and were both over the moon about getting free champagne. We both liked our bargains. I asked the hostess to give a glass to the man. At first he graciously declined, but I insisted and he accepted. He said he planned on telling his wife about our getting engaged on the train and that she would love the story. A little while later, the hostess returned with another, unopened bottle of champagne. She presented it to us and said it was with the compliments of the train crew. Wow! Free stuff! Getting engaged has its benefits after all. We saved the second bottle to take home with us.
After our train arrived at Brussels' Midi Station, we had to take a local train to Brussels' Central station, to get to our hotel. We missed our stop at Central station, then got off at the following stop. D---a and I ran from the platform and down the stairs, then back up to another platform, to catch a train going back the other way. We were both giddy and giggling. Oh to be young and in love, in Brussels. At Central Station, we went outside and approached a taxi rank. When we gave the driver of the lead cab the address of our hotel, he said we could walk there. We were tired and it was late, in a strange city. Also, we didn't know the way, so we asked him to take us anyway. He was right. The hotel was embarrassingly close, so I gave him a generous tip. Our hotel was moderately priced, with a small, cosy, yet modern room. The location was great. Right in the old, central city of Brussels. We had a nice, quiet, relaxing weekend there. The alleys of the old city come alive at night, with dozens of restaurants putting out sidewalk tables. They even had outdoor, gas heaters, to render the temperature comfortable, even though it was the dead of winter.
On Sunday, we checked out of our hotel and caught the train back to Britain. We tried telling the train crew that we'd just gotten engaged, hoping to get another free bottle of champagne to take home. The hostess brought us free glasses of champagne, but didn't give us a bottle. The Friday night crew was definitely more generous. It didn't matter, we were engaged to be married. It was my third engagement and D---a's second, but this time, I was going through with it.