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Yesterday ... not the best of days.
The ceaseleess train delays did not help. The Wrexham to Chester line was fine; but cows had gotten onto the A55 motorway and the railway line outside Colwyn Bay. The unfortunate ones on the railway were now just so much beefburger coating the front of a train, and much though the image of a bloodstained, gore-spattered Arriva Trains Wales locomotive pulling into Chester would have vastly amused me, I'm afraid it would have put rather a lot of commuters off their cappuccinos, so the railway schedule between Holyhead and Chester, not to mention the connections to Manchester and all other points, was thoroughly cocked up as the firm had to draft in rolling stock from somewhere to replace the Texas Railway Massacre Express.
Was it suicide? Did the cows think, "What have I got ahead of me but reincarnation as sixty servings of prime Welsh Black sirloin steak and a whole lot of expensive designer shoes? Will there be ... cake? Or just Prada handbags?" and then decide to end it all by turning into something with the consistency of McDonalds instead? Who knows.
I was offered an alternative: wait twenty minutes at Chester station for a delayed train, or catch the five past to Manchester via Altrincham - a service which takes almost twice as long as the regular Chester - Manchester, and which feels like the railway version of the Flying Dutchman, endlessly wandering yet never actually landing anywhere, being forced to shoot the dogs for protein and attacking one another as the cabin fever settles into the brains and bones of the increasingly paranoid survivors ...
I waited twenty minutes for the regular train. (I think the passengers on the Altrincham train were glad I did, though I never saw them again either ...)
So I got to Fan Boy Three, glad to be away from the seething mass of delayed passengers.
The delivery guy bringing in The Spinward Marches was late.
THREE AND THREE QUARTER HOURS LATE.
I had to go at 15:45. I would hang around a while later,catch a later train home, but I suspected that the cow trouble was going to have knock-on effects much later down the line, so I resolved to catch the 16:16 instead. I left Fan Boy 3, disappointed and with the strongest recommendation to the management that a complaint be lodged with that "lackadaisical, crackhead slacker of a driver" for costing him a sale where clearly there had been customers waiting.
Halfway up to the railway station, I felt a change of heart. I decided to ring the store from the station, tell them that they were going to have the sale after all - they had to wait two weeks for it, is all, till the next time I was in Manchester.
The 16:16 Llandudno train, the connector to Chester, was cancelled. I overheard it on the platform guard's walkie talkie as I stepped onto the platform. I also saw how harassed she looked, and my anger just melted away. I just smiled, shrugged, said "No worries. No fault, and nothing to apologise for," and picked up the phone to tell Fan Boy Three that if The Spinward Marches had arrived since I'd departed, they weren't going to have to wait two weeks for a sale. I had one hour - longer - to get back there.
And so I did. And I completed the sale.
And then ... things got interesting.
The symptoms were noticeable throughout the day. From the minute I got into downtown Wrexham this morning, people were accosting me on the street, asking for simple directions. Always, they were heading in the direction I was heading.
First someone wanted help in getting to the railway station. Then on the platform, some pretty French girl in glasses asked me if the train I was boarding was the one to Liverpool (it was, but you change at Chester).
In Chester, some Irish women asked me if the train I was waiting for was to Manchester; at Manchester, someone first asked me where Newton Street was (I was heading there) and, when my business was done, a gentleman asked me the way back to the railway station; and finally, at Chester, a lovely lady just positively hovered around me, not just asking for help but actually engaging me in quite enjoyable conversation for the hour and a half we had to wait for the 19:55 back to Wrexham.
And, damn me, flirting with me all the while.
Those delays persisted, sadly. The train to Chester was one minute late in, which meant that the last connecting train back to Wrexham had gone before we arrived, and as stated above, the next train wasn't till 19:55. By the time I got to town, of course, there were no buses anywhere either, which was a bind. But that's not important.
What is important is the final twist of weirdness. As I boarded the Wrexham train, a locomotive pulled into the platform next to mine. The stock was Virgin, and it had a nameplate.
The International Rescue logo, the Thunderbirds brand logo, and the name "Gordon Tracy."
As it pulled out, a minute before our train's departure, I was overheard saying in awed tones "Thunderbirds are go." Nobody got the joke. Should've gone to Specsavers. Bastards. :)
And now my tale of yesterday is told. One day I'll have a record of myexploits which will end with a line like "And we fell into bed with one another in the hotel across from Chester station," but looks like I'll have to wait for that story to be told as much as you will.
Only, I wonder,maybe not so long as I once thought ...
The ceaseleess train delays did not help. The Wrexham to Chester line was fine; but cows had gotten onto the A55 motorway and the railway line outside Colwyn Bay. The unfortunate ones on the railway were now just so much beefburger coating the front of a train, and much though the image of a bloodstained, gore-spattered Arriva Trains Wales locomotive pulling into Chester would have vastly amused me, I'm afraid it would have put rather a lot of commuters off their cappuccinos, so the railway schedule between Holyhead and Chester, not to mention the connections to Manchester and all other points, was thoroughly cocked up as the firm had to draft in rolling stock from somewhere to replace the Texas Railway Massacre Express.
Was it suicide? Did the cows think, "What have I got ahead of me but reincarnation as sixty servings of prime Welsh Black sirloin steak and a whole lot of expensive designer shoes? Will there be ... cake? Or just Prada handbags?" and then decide to end it all by turning into something with the consistency of McDonalds instead? Who knows.
I was offered an alternative: wait twenty minutes at Chester station for a delayed train, or catch the five past to Manchester via Altrincham - a service which takes almost twice as long as the regular Chester - Manchester, and which feels like the railway version of the Flying Dutchman, endlessly wandering yet never actually landing anywhere, being forced to shoot the dogs for protein and attacking one another as the cabin fever settles into the brains and bones of the increasingly paranoid survivors ...
I waited twenty minutes for the regular train. (I think the passengers on the Altrincham train were glad I did, though I never saw them again either ...)
So I got to Fan Boy Three, glad to be away from the seething mass of delayed passengers.
The delivery guy bringing in The Spinward Marches was late.
THREE AND THREE QUARTER HOURS LATE.
I had to go at 15:45. I would hang around a while later,catch a later train home, but I suspected that the cow trouble was going to have knock-on effects much later down the line, so I resolved to catch the 16:16 instead. I left Fan Boy 3, disappointed and with the strongest recommendation to the management that a complaint be lodged with that "lackadaisical, crackhead slacker of a driver" for costing him a sale where clearly there had been customers waiting.
Halfway up to the railway station, I felt a change of heart. I decided to ring the store from the station, tell them that they were going to have the sale after all - they had to wait two weeks for it, is all, till the next time I was in Manchester.
The 16:16 Llandudno train, the connector to Chester, was cancelled. I overheard it on the platform guard's walkie talkie as I stepped onto the platform. I also saw how harassed she looked, and my anger just melted away. I just smiled, shrugged, said "No worries. No fault, and nothing to apologise for," and picked up the phone to tell Fan Boy Three that if The Spinward Marches had arrived since I'd departed, they weren't going to have to wait two weeks for a sale. I had one hour - longer - to get back there.
And so I did. And I completed the sale.
And then ... things got interesting.
The symptoms were noticeable throughout the day. From the minute I got into downtown Wrexham this morning, people were accosting me on the street, asking for simple directions. Always, they were heading in the direction I was heading.
First someone wanted help in getting to the railway station. Then on the platform, some pretty French girl in glasses asked me if the train I was boarding was the one to Liverpool (it was, but you change at Chester).
In Chester, some Irish women asked me if the train I was waiting for was to Manchester; at Manchester, someone first asked me where Newton Street was (I was heading there) and, when my business was done, a gentleman asked me the way back to the railway station; and finally, at Chester, a lovely lady just positively hovered around me, not just asking for help but actually engaging me in quite enjoyable conversation for the hour and a half we had to wait for the 19:55 back to Wrexham.
And, damn me, flirting with me all the while.
Those delays persisted, sadly. The train to Chester was one minute late in, which meant that the last connecting train back to Wrexham had gone before we arrived, and as stated above, the next train wasn't till 19:55. By the time I got to town, of course, there were no buses anywhere either, which was a bind. But that's not important.
What is important is the final twist of weirdness. As I boarded the Wrexham train, a locomotive pulled into the platform next to mine. The stock was Virgin, and it had a nameplate.
The International Rescue logo, the Thunderbirds brand logo, and the name "Gordon Tracy."
As it pulled out, a minute before our train's departure, I was overheard saying in awed tones "Thunderbirds are go." Nobody got the joke. Should've gone to Specsavers. Bastards. :)
And now my tale of yesterday is told. One day I'll have a record of myexploits which will end with a line like "And we fell into bed with one another in the hotel across from Chester station," but looks like I'll have to wait for that story to be told as much as you will.
Only, I wonder,maybe not so long as I once thought ...
