Arriving early at the station this morning, I decided to take the slow train to London via Birmingham. I foolishly believed it would allow me more time to write my column.
I was happily tapping away at my laptop when the inspector examining my ticket said: "You’re on the wrong train, this one takes an extra 50 minutes."
I thanked him for the information and told him I was in no hurry.
The lady at the buffet bar asked where I was heading.
The moment I said Euston, she advised me to get off at Stoke and change trains for the Inter City, which was ‘much faster’.
I said there was no rush and returned to my seat.
When almost everyone on board alighted at Birmingham, a frantic Virgin employee urged me to grab my things and leave quickly.
"I’m going on to Euston," I told him.
"What, on the slow train?"
"Yes."
He walked away shaking his head as though he’d encountered an imbecile.
A second ticket inspection at Coventry produced a look of sheer incredulity from the train manager.
"You got on at Macclesfield?" he said.
I nodded.
"For Euston?"
I nodded again.
"You do realise this is the…"
"Slow train," I chorused.
He raised his eyes to the ceiling and shuffled off.
Apparently, everyone is in so much of a hurry that no person of sound mind would consider taking a slow train in preference to an express.
No wonder we suffer so much stress related illness.
I’m pretty stressed myself after the constant stream of interruptions and interrogations.
It’ll be a miracle if I ever finish writing this week’s column.
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