“And once again as I’ve said numerous times,” boomed the station announcer at Didcot Parkway, “If you’re waiting on Platform 4 for the 18:04 service you are on the wrong platform,” he paused here like the opening of a great bracket, “Like you are sir,” he said, then closed the bracket pointedly…. “You need to move to platform 3… where your train is actually waiting.”
I saluted the security camera, smiling, picked up my rucksack and headed for the other platform. It’s quite a day when even the station announcer gets sarcastic with you. I’d like to think that that was the most British thing to happen today, which I guess explains my amused reaction. I’ve always thought that sarcasm was the lowest form of wit but here, I conceded, it was used with eviscerating and endearing skill. Fair play, Mr Station Announcer.
It’s been quite a day. Pedro brought in home-made ice cream - which I couldn’t eat. Then the Lebanese Bakery guy gave me a face when I asked for a chicken shawarma wrap without the sauce. I felt the reeling of his nation behind him, a sort of horrified gasp rippling through the cedar trees of Beirut and Tripoli. He made it anyway.
I wonder what would have happened if I’d stayed on platform 4. Withering looks from the yellow-jacketed staff? A raised eyebrow at me asking when the next train was due? Perhaps a joke about how if I wait long enough I might be able to take the hyper loop or if I can be bothered, climb into the Great Western teleportation booth. No matter. I’m on my way home now. I might not be able to eat ice cream, and I might have offended Lebanon, but as the green fields flash by, and as the train squeals through South Oxfordshire, I am still rather glad to be British.
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