TRAVEL WOES

I went to Oxford yesterday, though I’m still not quite sure how I got there. At about 6:57 on the chilly platform, the tannoy announcer bonged over the station and said:

“Platform 3. We are sorry to announce that the. 0705 service. to. Didcot Parkway. has been cancelled.”

Pause.

“The next train due to arrive on platform 3 will be the .0705 service. to. Didcot Parkway.”

There was a ripple of laughter from my fellow passengers gathered on platform 3. I think even the London-bound folks on the opposite platform had a giggle across the tracks.

Well the quantum-physical train did arrive at five past seven, and it did take us to Didcot Parkway. So I guess that answered that.

Getting to Oxford on the following train though was a bit more difficult. By that time, the dawn was a wide band of orange and purple, glimmering through the trees. The air was thick with cold breath and anticipation. No train. A lot of people.

Amazingly, I got a seat when it turned up. The space appeared right next to where I was standing so I sat in it. Good job too. My view was to be rucksacks and satchels and the shoulders of thick winter jackets. The guy next to me was creating something for TikTok and I slipped my AirPods in and listened to a podcast about the TV show Gladiators.

When I got to Oxford, it was light. Clouds had gathered over that first glimpse of sunlight, and the sky was a dull grey. Oh and there were twenty people in the queue for a taxi. Common sense, as predictable as a working compass, pointed me to the bus stop.

They say, don’t they - that we know how to queue in this country. Nope. A crowd swarmed around the empty bus in a radial pattern, waiting for the doors to open.

It was the right bus - I checked! We even saw the driver cross the road with a coffee and a cigarette. If you ask me, he was a little too leisurely for my liking, a stroller with no care for the world. He had a chat with some minicab drivers, drawing on that cigarette and sipping the rim of that coffee cup. I don’t know what about. Potholes? Traffic lights? Football. What do drivers have in common? I don’t care; it was freezing.

The taxi rank had ballooned to twenty five, I’d noticed, and no taxis arriving.

Back came Monsieur Laissez-Faire of the S7 bus, smoke snuffed out and coffee consumed. The doors swooshed open and he boarded, swinging himself into the driving seat.

“Sorry luv,” he said, as the first lady hopped on automatically. “Not in service, this one.”

He flicked the electronic signs, and they all changed accordingly.

“What?” she asked.

“Not in service. Twenty minutes to the next one.”

I decided I was walking.

-

To be fair, I could have ordered a taxi back at the end of the day. The thing was I had seen the S7 bus shoot by as I left the office at 5:30, and I’d sprinted for it. And the taxi costs £8 instead of £2.

Sprinting is odd these days. The first few seconds are a rush of adrenaline. Wow, not as unfit as I thought. Still got it. This is easy. I don’t even feel tired. I’m Linford Christie, and Linford Christie always makes it to the bus stop…

About five minutes later, I was doubled-over wheezing at the bus stop, still catching my breath and wondering just how long the next bus would be. You know, like Linford Christie definitely doesn’t. It was cold and dark and I’d had a long old day. I pulled my gloves out of my coat pocket and thrust my freezing fingers into them.

The next five buses were all 2s and 2As all marked ‘City Centre’. I asked the drivers of each if they went to the railway station. They shook heads. One told me I needed the S7. Thanks, bus drivers.

In hindsight, Oxford isn’t big enough for the train station to be miles away from the city centre; I should have got on a 2 or a 2A and then walked the rest of the way. I reckon the drivers could have told me that too, but I understand why they didn’t feel the need. By the time I thought of it, it was a bit late anyway. And then the S7 trundled along and I climbed aboard.

The train back to Didcot was alright. I had a bit of a wait for the next one, so I got a Starbucks and a ham and cheese toastie. £9. I munched it with the strange sensation that I was somehow eating a taxi-ride. By this time I was feeling quite exhausted. The cheese dripped from the paper bag and over my fingers.

I don’t know why I’m telling you all this. The journey isn’t typically this annoying, and things don’t often feel quite so antagonistic. But here’s the thing: I got a seat on every train I took yesterday. I could listen to anything I wanted. I saw the sun come up and was reminded of how beautiful the world can be. The people I spoke to in the ticket office helped me. I wasn’t once hungry, or thirsty, or wet, or too cold. I had a lovely walk up the canal. Nobody minded that I got to work late, and I was able to stay a bit later to make up for it. I have a really decent job and I enjoyed it yesterday.

Those things sound like blessings. And just listing them reminded me that our perception of a thing, how we feel and choose to react to it, and how we tell others, it all depends on what we choose to focus on. And it really is a choice.

Sammy picked me up from the station. I smiled with warmth as I got into the car, and we headed home. So nice.