Next time I’ll wear my hat, gloves and maybe a layer of grease

17 February 2008

I don’t like leaving this long between posts, but I’ve been busy and somewhat knackered this past week – and not just from the forward rolls and cartwheels. God, just thinking about those makes my back feel even more scrunchy.

Normally I work from home, which involves rolling down the stairs to my office at what others may deem to be are-you-kidding-me o’clock, but recently I’ve gone to Guildford three times on the train to work with John, either at his office or the university, meaning I had to be up and in the land of the living just a little earlier. And standing on station platforms in the goddamn freezing cold.

I went with John to the University of Surrey to take photos at their clinical research centre: pictures of EEG leads, test tubes, sleep rooms and things like that. It all went well and fortunately I was not shunned at lunch when I started putting the crisps I’d asked for into my sandwich. Mmm, crisp sandwich. While at the uni I even had the pleasure of meeting the delightful 7 Days member Jimmy Moonbeam, a very funny guy, whom his wife says I may have only once she’s finished with him (I asked).

The trains themselves provided a little entertainment. If entertainment is what one calls realising that were I to be alone in the carriage I wouldn’t be able to leave it at my stop, or even change to another carriage where there might be people who could reach the “open doors” button. Of course, most of the time I was only able to sit in the carriage pondering this thanks to the fact that someone else had opened the doors to allow me onto the train in the first place. On my second homeward trip a rail worker handed me a questionnaire to fill in. Shivering, I took the form with a menacing glint in my eye. Finally a chance to tell, well at least the people who run Redhill station, just how impossible it is for anyone of short stature to use the trains independently. I’m looking forward to writing in the little disability comments box “please see attached sheet”.

Making my way home that evening, I had arrived at Redhill station at about 7.40pm. I came onto platform 1 and looked at the screens. No sign of Tonbridge, but the next train for platform 3 was going somewhere I didn’t recognise, so I thought I should check out its route. I crossed to platform 3 and discovered it was no use to me, so I enquired at the ticket office as to the next train to Tonbridge and was told it would be the 20.08 from that platform. Great, I shall park myself on this very cold bench then. Then came an announcement that my train would be arriving at platform 2. Back I went to the other side of the tracks. The train already standing at the platform wasn’t for Tonbridge and soon shunted off somewhere else. The information screen announced that the next train would be the 20.08 to Tonbridge. The second train for that platform would be the 20.08 to London Victoria. An interesting piece of timetabling. Eventually another platform change was announced, I went to platform 3 and a pile-up was averted.

On the third day I was on my way home a bit earlier, but the platforms were as icily cold as before. While I stared at the ratty grey hair of the man sitting in front of me, an annoyingly loudmouthed kid was testing her brother’s spelling:

“Spell ‘hibernate’”
“H-I-B-E-R-N-A-T-E”
“Spell ‘hibernation’”
“H-Y-B-E-R…”
“There’s no Y”
“Oh, then H-I-E-B-E-R-N-A-T…”

at which point their mother interjected and I did my best to tune them out, lest I lose the will to live. Why can’t no-one spell or speak proper, like what I do?