ac alys us of yfele soşlice

Sometimes you have to block things out and soldier on as if nothing bad has happened.

Thursday evening, I headed up to London on the train. It was very busy and I pushed my way onto the carriage because people were already standing or sitting on the floor by the door, refusing to respond to, “Excuse me please”. I made them move by pushing through or treading on their feet.

I saw there was a tad more room by the next set of doors and wobbled through the carriage, dragging my little suitcase behind me, counting the number of young(ish) men and boys stuck in seats. Whatever happened to chivalry? Oh, yeah: feminism and #MeToo – the mindset that gave us men in touch with their feelings at the expense of masculinity, Dame Alison Rose and her fellow incompetents, and my sore feet.

When I got to the next set of doors, there wasn’t as much room as I’d thought. I opened my mouth to ask one man if he wouldn’t mind moving his large suitcase so I could lean against an upright, but when I caught his eye, he looked away. What else could I do but sit on his suitcase. Pity I couldn’t muster up a fart. 

A few seconds later, a chap sitting near me tapped my arm and I assumed he was going to offer me his seat. But no. He was attracting my attention so that a British teenage girl two rows away could offer me her seat. “Thank you so much,” I responded as loudly as I could to embarrass as many males as possible. “That’s very kind and thoughtful of you but I’m actually quite comfortable.” I reassured her again and smiled broadly. She sat down, not wholly convinced, but at least her conscience was clear, unlike that of the frogs and snails and puppy-dogs’ tails. 

Her kindness reminded me of an incident many moons ago when I was heading up to Carlisle on the train, surrounded by an extended family with the broadest West Cumbrian accents I had ever heard. When the train left Penrith, I stood up and reached for my suitcase on the rack. Before I knew it, one of the teenage lads got my case down for me. I thanked him profusely, and his dad (I assume) looked pleased as punch. I remember the occasion vividly because it contrasted sharply with the return journey when, pulling into London, not one of the City gents, yuppies, Sloanes or urban elites helped me with my case. I can’t help thinking that these same City gents, yuppies, Sloanes and urban elites sneered at West Cumbrians for voting Leave, which proves one of my many mantras: those who can, do; those who can’t, sneer.

That visit to Carlisle was because Dad had broken his leg and was in hospital. Being very hard of hearing and with a speech impediment, he was worried that the doctors might think he had dementia; to prove that he hadn’t and that he was actually compos mentis, he wrote down the Lords’ Prayer in Anglo Saxon English. It begins: Fæder ure şu şe eart on heofonum. Nice job, Dad!

Back to this Thursday, the train stopped as scheduled at Watford Junction. Doors opened. One or two passengers got off and others on. Doors closed. Then nothing. Eventually, the driver announced that there had been a fatality at Wembley Central and our train was terminating. This is all too tragic for words: the sheer horror and desperation compounded by the time of year, grief of the family, impact on emergency services and railway workers … but stoicism kicked in, and as soon as the doors opened, I pushed my way off the train ahead of anyone else and hoofed it towards the exit. If all I had to stress about was being late for the Nutcracker then wasn’t I blessed.

“Excuse me,” I asked a station attendant, “where’s the underground?” “Twenty minutes that way,” he said, turning his head towards the exit and a timely cloudburst. Luckily there was a taxi rank right outside, and I shared a ride to the underground station with a lovely family. We chatted in good humour during the short trip. No one mentioned the fatality. Once on the tube, I overhead another mum explaining to her young daughter (7? 8?) that their train had been terminated because someone had to be rescued further down the line. At some stage, the little girl will learn the full story. That alone is very sad.

I got to the flat. Hubby was already there, having driven up from Gloucestershire. Long story. Not worth a blog. I had just enough time to dump the suitcase, change my shoes, put on my makeup (say a little prayer for yoooou), scrunch my curls and we left together, only to part 200 yards away for him to grab a burger at a cheap-and-cheerful, and for me to catch the Elizabeth line then the Northern Line to Leicester Square and a girls’ night out. 

I followed my scribbled directions to the theatre and ended up lost. I phoned Hubby: “I’m lost.” “Don’t you have Google maps on your phone?” “Yes but I don’t know how to use it.” “Your theatre is on St Martins Lane”. “Meaningless because I don’t where I am.” “Which station did you get off at?” “Glasgow Central.” “Ho. Ho. Ho.” By which time, I’d somehow found my way to St Martin’s Lane and could see the theatre not far away.

As I caught my breath over cocktails with Sis-in-law (Niece had a diet coke) I thought fleetingly of my stress at getting a little lost compared to the poor lost soul at Wembley Central.

Supper was delish, the ballet glorious, company unsurpassable, journey back uneventful thank goodness.

Next morning, Hubby treated me to bubble and squeak for breakfast at the Wolsey – he had haggis and duck eggs – before a visit to the Royal Academy and Impressionists on Paper. Halfway round, I had a thought, or rather a flash of inspiration for my PhuD. Without pen and paper, I sent myself a quick text message, so quick that when I read it later, I didn’t understand what on earth I was on about.

We walked along New Bond Street to keep Hubby’s credit card relevant, several times, but he didn't mind so much until ... I can’t resist a second-hand bookshop, even though I've often promised the world, including Hubby, that I wouldn’t buy any more books because I’d inherited most of Mum and Dad’s library. But this wasn’t any old second-hand bookshop; this was a rare second-hand bookshop. I promised Hubby I wouldn’t buy anything, but one foot through the door and I thought I’d died and gone to Heaven, except I wouldn’t get through the Pearly Gates because I’d lied to Hubby. There in front of me on an antique table, as if being offered as the body of Christ at the altar, was one of Maggie’s memoirs, The Path to Power, signed by the divine lady herself.

As I handed over my credit card – Hubby’s was full – I couldn’t help wishing that the poor soul at Wembley Central was now at peace in their own Heaven, perhaps enjoying tea and cake with Maggie – and Mum and Dad – tut-tutting at me spending an obscene amount of money on an earthly good, having lied to Hubby if not the whole world.

forgyf us ure gyltas