12 May 2009
Just a dude on a train - part 1
I had a very bizarre train journey in March that I felt compelled to blog about. I started writing about it and was going to wait until it was complete before putting it up here, but it was such a mammoth bit of weirdness that I still haven't completed it yet. Instead of waiting another couple of months to post it in one hefty bit of blogness, I thought it best to give it to you in installments like a blog-based novella or something. Exciting. Anyway, here is part one for of my encounter with a train-based nutter.
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I love travelling by train on my own. No matter how many times I do it, I still get a tiny, giddy thrill out of it. There’s something deeply tranquil about gazing silently out of the window at the hundreds of places I know I’ll never visit, as they hurtle by leaving only a fleeting imprint on my memory before fading away like a snowflake on a dog’s nose.
Sometimes however, train journeys are nothing like this. Because sometimes, you find yourself conversationally hijacked by an unfettered nutbag. And that is precisely what happened to me recently.
The occasion in question was your basic train journey from Liverpool to London. A typical two and a half journey that should have been utterly bereft of communication save for a vague smile to the conductor as I handed over my ticket and an apologetic shrug to the buffet-pusher to indicate that I have no intention of spending £4 on a cup of their tragic tea.
As I boarded the train at Liverpool, I wandered through the carriages trying to find the perfect seat. I have a clear hierarchy of what I’m looking for on a long journey. An entire table to myself is the premium snaffle, but that’s rarely available, so I’m usually happy to settle for a forward-facing seat next to a window, not next to a person and in a carriage entirely unsullied by children. As the train was busy, I’d resigned myself to the fact that I wasn’t going to get a table, but I found what appeared to be the perfect alternative seat in a sparsely populated carriage, immediately behind a man who appeared to be asleep. I took my coat off, sat down and commenced relaxing.
After a short while, there was an announcement from Jane, the train manager, informing us of the usual travel-related admin. It was nothing out of the ordinary and certainly wasn’t going to disturb my idling, but as soon as she’d finished speaking, something unexpected happened. The man in the seat immediately in front of me, suddenly burst into life by announcing in a loud voice to the entire carriage… “I love Jane the train!”
It’s at that point that I started to suspect that I’d sat in the wrong seat. Jane the train. That’s what he called her. Not Jane the train manager, but Jane the train. Like she was a character in Thomas the Tank Engine. Before I had any chance to subtly gather my things and set off in search of more sedate travelling companions, the man span round, kneeled up on his seat and faced me.
----------------------------
I love travelling by train on my own. No matter how many times I do it, I still get a tiny, giddy thrill out of it. There’s something deeply tranquil about gazing silently out of the window at the hundreds of places I know I’ll never visit, as they hurtle by leaving only a fleeting imprint on my memory before fading away like a snowflake on a dog’s nose.
Sometimes however, train journeys are nothing like this. Because sometimes, you find yourself conversationally hijacked by an unfettered nutbag. And that is precisely what happened to me recently.
The occasion in question was your basic train journey from Liverpool to London. A typical two and a half journey that should have been utterly bereft of communication save for a vague smile to the conductor as I handed over my ticket and an apologetic shrug to the buffet-pusher to indicate that I have no intention of spending £4 on a cup of their tragic tea.
As I boarded the train at Liverpool, I wandered through the carriages trying to find the perfect seat. I have a clear hierarchy of what I’m looking for on a long journey. An entire table to myself is the premium snaffle, but that’s rarely available, so I’m usually happy to settle for a forward-facing seat next to a window, not next to a person and in a carriage entirely unsullied by children. As the train was busy, I’d resigned myself to the fact that I wasn’t going to get a table, but I found what appeared to be the perfect alternative seat in a sparsely populated carriage, immediately behind a man who appeared to be asleep. I took my coat off, sat down and commenced relaxing.
After a short while, there was an announcement from Jane, the train manager, informing us of the usual travel-related admin. It was nothing out of the ordinary and certainly wasn’t going to disturb my idling, but as soon as she’d finished speaking, something unexpected happened. The man in the seat immediately in front of me, suddenly burst into life by announcing in a loud voice to the entire carriage… “I love Jane the train!”
It’s at that point that I started to suspect that I’d sat in the wrong seat. Jane the train. That’s what he called her. Not Jane the train manager, but Jane the train. Like she was a character in Thomas the Tank Engine. Before I had any chance to subtly gather my things and set off in search of more sedate travelling companions, the man span round, kneeled up on his seat and faced me.
Labels: Mark Allen spraff dude on a train travel
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