Train Journey.
Jun. 11th, 2006 04:28 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
slemslempikeI got the 16.10 from Euston, changing at Manchester because it was a cheaper fare. I am never doing that again. Frugality is downright dangerous, the only way is to splash out and waste money frivolously.
The first leg to Piccadilly wasn't too bad, but was unfortunately somewhat delayed along the way - I missed my connection to Lancaster by less than a minute - the train left at 19.44 and I got off the train at 19.43 - nowhere near enough time to get across the bridge to platform 13. So I went to the helpdesk and had a very calm, very I-am-not-shouting-at-you-but-that-doesn't-mean-I-don't-hate-you conversation where I explained the situation, and they tried to make me buy another ticket to get to Lancaster. Oh no no no. That did not happen. But Virgin were not running any services in the near future, and I was not allowed to get the direct service by another company. That would be madness. So I was instructed to get to Warrington, and then change to Preston, and then finally I might be privileged to be allowed to get a train to Lancaster.
The bit to Warrington was enlivened by excited youths who ried to intervene when I explained to the ticket guy about the missed connection and then wanted to know what I was reading and were just the okay side of scary, but I was very glad when I changed trains, as I thought that it would be all right from here. This is probably Dramatic Irony. Or Foreshadowing. Or Sod's Law.
I accosted a friendly looking man and asked where to go to get the Preston train. "Oh, you won't be going anywhere in a hurry", he replied. I was slightly taken aback, and went in search myself. This lead to the discovery that while there were several people milling about on the platforms, all the trains were mysteriously empty. Then I found out that this was because everyone was congregating at the front of the station in a slightly miffed throng. Ah well, I thought philosophically. At least it is nice weather. (I do not pretend that I have remotely Deep Thoughts.)
It transpired that some kids had set fire to a signal box to the north of Warrington Bank Quay, and so they couldn't run any more trains that way. They were trying to get us coaches, but because it was the day of the England match, either the coaches were all booked or the drivers had been drinking during the day. They had no idea when a coach might arrive, but they would definitely get us back okay.
I thought it would be a good idea to loiter near other people headed my way, as then I wouldn't be stranded all on my own if I missed what was going on, and also possibly if they turned out to have a special friend whose hobby entailed driving from Warrington to Lancaster in a lovely air conditioned car, it would be as well to be standing by looking pathetic. I found a couple who were around the age of my parents, and sat near them. This was a mistake. There was a man who was quiet but a bit whiny, and a woman who explained to us all how she had predicted the July 7th bombings last year, and called the police with lots of details. She knew how many people would die, but not how it would happen, or exactly when. She is baffled as to why the police waited to act - they could have prevented all that just by listening to her! She had a vision! I shall call her Cassandra.
We were chatting, and as always it turned to what you do, and I explained that I was doing research on fun. This was a bigger mistake. For the next hour I was instructed on how I ought to study fun, that I shouldn't look at youth, that I should go out with them, that it's all about the energy of a place, that she is the funnest person EVER, and that she's really kerrazzzy! I was forced to watch videos she had taken on her handheld camera in the past week while she hovered over me and explained the many ways in which people in the shot were having fun, and how I should get a camera. It was horrendous. Then! She explained that I should throw a party, and then study it, and she could come and video it for me! I couldn't escape because I was rooted to the spot in utter horror. Then I lent them my phone to make a call. During which she announced that the guy she was talking to was the funniest person she knew and made me speak to him. He was elderly and slimy and he propositioned me.
Ohhhh. Then, eventually, they announced that a coach would be arriving. (Not the singular. We will return to that shortly.) There was some kerfuffle about where it was going to go, and when it was going to get here. Cassandra was on the case to diffuse the tension. She got a plane propeller from her suitcase and "flew" up and down. Oh how we laughed in the rather humid heat with nothing to drink and no-where to go.
One coach arrived. We had previously been assured that the first coach would go to Preston, and the second to Carlisle via Lancaster. So I held back, and watched the swarm. They were stopped by the Virgin man, who informed them that this coach was headed for Chester. There were four people going that way, compared to the insignificant sixty/seventy people intending to end up in Preston. There were raised voices, and then they just got on the coach and told the driver to go to Preston. Virgin man walked away pretending that this was the plan all along. The coach left, and they said that they still didn't know how long the others would be. But they were coming.
They were not coming.
At 11pm this was finally revealed to us. But never fear! All we had to do was walk to the other station in the city, where we would get a train. They promised. Were most affronted that we questioned this - hadn't they promised us coaches? And two hours later, hadn't one turned up? But there wasn't a lot else we could do, so we went "just up the road to the traffic lights and turn right". It was about a mile, through the centre of town where the pubs were overspilling with singing drunken people, there was no offer of assistance with luggage, or people with children, or the very elderly couple being helped by other passengers. When we got to Warrington Central, we discovered that we were going to get a train to Liverpool, and apparently then get another one to Preston. But. No-one had told the driver of the Liverpool train this, and he was trying not to let anyone on the train, and instead send us to Manchester, where we might get to board a rail replacement bus to Preston (possibly. But it transpired that one of the train men was himself trying to get to Preston, and he was adamant that we were going to get on the Liverpool train, and there would be another train waiting for us. There was a loud and sweary argument between the rival train companies. Eventually, after the Preston man had taken over the tannoy system and insisted that everyone get on the Liverpool train, we filed on. Well, we weren't going to be messed with - we sat right there in first class, defiant of all the normal ticketing regulations! I waited until other people had taken the seats at either end of the carriage and went and sat squarely in the middle so that if there was about to be a bloody class struggle with the train people, I would be able to wait until it was resolved and either stay firmly in my uncomfortable orange seat, or slink out among the cowed crowd. In the event the only thing that happened is that someone walked through the carriage loudly talking about how much cooler it was in standard class.
Then we were finally at Liverpool, and ran very fast off the train with neon jacketed train people yelling platform numbers at us, and got seats on a train that promised to be heading for Preston. (Had I not been reserving all my pity for myself, I would have exerted some for the people already on this train, who were running late anyway, and then had the train held until we all got on.) It stopped at every conceivable stop along the way, including one place that I would have sworn was in Wales. Eventually we got to Wigan, and then we felt more secure as it was finally a place we had heard of, and felt vaguely confident was sort of kind of near Preston. It was also the stop that half the train (not me) were five minutes outside of before the track fire was started, and they were returned to Warrington. Four hours to complete that circle.
EVENTUALLY we got to Preston, and asked the nearest person if there were coaches. He didn't know, and had no intention of knowing anything except that we should go to the customer service place on the other platform. Away from him. Because he didn't know anything. At all. At this point the man in the white shirt left. We realised that there were no coaches, and that there quite possibly had never been any coaches. So we went and milled in a defeated huddle on the platform until someone came out and said that there were indeed, no coaches. BUT! There were taxis. Or rather, there weren't specifically, at this particular moment, taxis. But there would be. And they took our destinations and worked it out, and then we went to another part of the station to wait for taxis. The first one that showed up went to Blackpool, but the second was for Lancaster, and there was one space left, into which I catapulted myself. And then I was home by two. Which is only six hours, and really quite reasonable, when you think about it. I mean, if I'd walked, that would have been, what, fifteen hours? This was was much shorter.
I already have the complaint form, so I can do that tomorrow along with the MONSTER housing benefit form I have to fill in to confirm everything I've already told them.
The first leg to Piccadilly wasn't too bad, but was unfortunately somewhat delayed along the way - I missed my connection to Lancaster by less than a minute - the train left at 19.44 and I got off the train at 19.43 - nowhere near enough time to get across the bridge to platform 13. So I went to the helpdesk and had a very calm, very I-am-not-shouting-at-you-but-that-doesn't-mean-I-don't-hate-you conversation where I explained the situation, and they tried to make me buy another ticket to get to Lancaster. Oh no no no. That did not happen. But Virgin were not running any services in the near future, and I was not allowed to get the direct service by another company. That would be madness. So I was instructed to get to Warrington, and then change to Preston, and then finally I might be privileged to be allowed to get a train to Lancaster.
The bit to Warrington was enlivened by excited youths who ried to intervene when I explained to the ticket guy about the missed connection and then wanted to know what I was reading and were just the okay side of scary, but I was very glad when I changed trains, as I thought that it would be all right from here. This is probably Dramatic Irony. Or Foreshadowing. Or Sod's Law.
I accosted a friendly looking man and asked where to go to get the Preston train. "Oh, you won't be going anywhere in a hurry", he replied. I was slightly taken aback, and went in search myself. This lead to the discovery that while there were several people milling about on the platforms, all the trains were mysteriously empty. Then I found out that this was because everyone was congregating at the front of the station in a slightly miffed throng. Ah well, I thought philosophically. At least it is nice weather. (I do not pretend that I have remotely Deep Thoughts.)
It transpired that some kids had set fire to a signal box to the north of Warrington Bank Quay, and so they couldn't run any more trains that way. They were trying to get us coaches, but because it was the day of the England match, either the coaches were all booked or the drivers had been drinking during the day. They had no idea when a coach might arrive, but they would definitely get us back okay.
I thought it would be a good idea to loiter near other people headed my way, as then I wouldn't be stranded all on my own if I missed what was going on, and also possibly if they turned out to have a special friend whose hobby entailed driving from Warrington to Lancaster in a lovely air conditioned car, it would be as well to be standing by looking pathetic. I found a couple who were around the age of my parents, and sat near them. This was a mistake. There was a man who was quiet but a bit whiny, and a woman who explained to us all how she had predicted the July 7th bombings last year, and called the police with lots of details. She knew how many people would die, but not how it would happen, or exactly when. She is baffled as to why the police waited to act - they could have prevented all that just by listening to her! She had a vision! I shall call her Cassandra.
We were chatting, and as always it turned to what you do, and I explained that I was doing research on fun. This was a bigger mistake. For the next hour I was instructed on how I ought to study fun, that I shouldn't look at youth, that I should go out with them, that it's all about the energy of a place, that she is the funnest person EVER, and that she's really kerrazzzy! I was forced to watch videos she had taken on her handheld camera in the past week while she hovered over me and explained the many ways in which people in the shot were having fun, and how I should get a camera. It was horrendous. Then! She explained that I should throw a party, and then study it, and she could come and video it for me! I couldn't escape because I was rooted to the spot in utter horror. Then I lent them my phone to make a call. During which she announced that the guy she was talking to was the funniest person she knew and made me speak to him. He was elderly and slimy and he propositioned me.
Ohhhh. Then, eventually, they announced that a coach would be arriving. (Not the singular. We will return to that shortly.) There was some kerfuffle about where it was going to go, and when it was going to get here. Cassandra was on the case to diffuse the tension. She got a plane propeller from her suitcase and "flew" up and down. Oh how we laughed in the rather humid heat with nothing to drink and no-where to go.
One coach arrived. We had previously been assured that the first coach would go to Preston, and the second to Carlisle via Lancaster. So I held back, and watched the swarm. They were stopped by the Virgin man, who informed them that this coach was headed for Chester. There were four people going that way, compared to the insignificant sixty/seventy people intending to end up in Preston. There were raised voices, and then they just got on the coach and told the driver to go to Preston. Virgin man walked away pretending that this was the plan all along. The coach left, and they said that they still didn't know how long the others would be. But they were coming.
They were not coming.
At 11pm this was finally revealed to us. But never fear! All we had to do was walk to the other station in the city, where we would get a train. They promised. Were most affronted that we questioned this - hadn't they promised us coaches? And two hours later, hadn't one turned up? But there wasn't a lot else we could do, so we went "just up the road to the traffic lights and turn right". It was about a mile, through the centre of town where the pubs were overspilling with singing drunken people, there was no offer of assistance with luggage, or people with children, or the very elderly couple being helped by other passengers. When we got to Warrington Central, we discovered that we were going to get a train to Liverpool, and apparently then get another one to Preston. But. No-one had told the driver of the Liverpool train this, and he was trying not to let anyone on the train, and instead send us to Manchester, where we might get to board a rail replacement bus to Preston (possibly. But it transpired that one of the train men was himself trying to get to Preston, and he was adamant that we were going to get on the Liverpool train, and there would be another train waiting for us. There was a loud and sweary argument between the rival train companies. Eventually, after the Preston man had taken over the tannoy system and insisted that everyone get on the Liverpool train, we filed on. Well, we weren't going to be messed with - we sat right there in first class, defiant of all the normal ticketing regulations! I waited until other people had taken the seats at either end of the carriage and went and sat squarely in the middle so that if there was about to be a bloody class struggle with the train people, I would be able to wait until it was resolved and either stay firmly in my uncomfortable orange seat, or slink out among the cowed crowd. In the event the only thing that happened is that someone walked through the carriage loudly talking about how much cooler it was in standard class.
Then we were finally at Liverpool, and ran very fast off the train with neon jacketed train people yelling platform numbers at us, and got seats on a train that promised to be heading for Preston. (Had I not been reserving all my pity for myself, I would have exerted some for the people already on this train, who were running late anyway, and then had the train held until we all got on.) It stopped at every conceivable stop along the way, including one place that I would have sworn was in Wales. Eventually we got to Wigan, and then we felt more secure as it was finally a place we had heard of, and felt vaguely confident was sort of kind of near Preston. It was also the stop that half the train (not me) were five minutes outside of before the track fire was started, and they were returned to Warrington. Four hours to complete that circle.
EVENTUALLY we got to Preston, and asked the nearest person if there were coaches. He didn't know, and had no intention of knowing anything except that we should go to the customer service place on the other platform. Away from him. Because he didn't know anything. At all. At this point the man in the white shirt left. We realised that there were no coaches, and that there quite possibly had never been any coaches. So we went and milled in a defeated huddle on the platform until someone came out and said that there were indeed, no coaches. BUT! There were taxis. Or rather, there weren't specifically, at this particular moment, taxis. But there would be. And they took our destinations and worked it out, and then we went to another part of the station to wait for taxis. The first one that showed up went to Blackpool, but the second was for Lancaster, and there was one space left, into which I catapulted myself. And then I was home by two. Which is only six hours, and really quite reasonable, when you think about it. I mean, if I'd walked, that would have been, what, fifteen hours? This was was much shorter.
I already have the complaint form, so I can do that tomorrow along with the MONSTER housing benefit form I have to fill in to confirm everything I've already told them.
