On Saturday I shall be taking the train back to my home town of Solihull. Actually, I shall be getting the train to the pit of misery that is Peterborough station, then getting a lift back the rest of the way. I don’t normally get this treatment, but due to National Rail’s interesting decision to replace the train that goes from Peterborough to Birmingham with two other trains and a replacement bus service (treating us to a scenic tour of the midlands, no doubt) my Dad agreed to come and get me half way. I’m feeling pretty smug about this as, somehow his love of trains didn’t run genetically through the family. When I was younger, I tried to become interested in his talk of pistons and sleepers and other such things, but at the end of the day, it was like trying to be interested in concrete. A train is just something that gets you from A to B, in the most uncomfortable and extortionately priced way possible.
I’m not a big fan of the train. It’s not like a car, different rules apply. This one time, when it was ely busy, a man got on my train holding three dog leeds with giant Alsatians on the ends, nottingham all together he proceeded to charge down the carlisle, not looking who he was knocking into, nor wich way he was going. I was sitting, quietly reading as he barged past. He preston to a free seat next to this old lady, and managed to bangor in the knee with a walking stick under his arm. He did aplogise, but by that time it was a dundeed and she looked pretty upset. Turns out he knew the guy sitting opposite him, and they brightoned up the carriage with their loud, unnecessary conversation. I don’t know why they didn’t simply mouth quietly to each other like normal people. Truro, we weren’t in the quite coach, but by the end of the journey I couldn’t wait to exeter.
The U.K doesn’t have a Kidney Bank, but it does have a Liverpool