MEN IN PLASTIC BOXES

Loads of thoughts today. The first one’s about how dismissive some people behind glass windows can be. In the early morning darkness of the train station, the lightly-moustached man in the ticket office was up first.

“Can’t give you an open return if you travel today,” he sighed. His eyes were fixed on the screen in front of him. “Two separate tickets.” Still no eye contact. A price flashed up on the till facing me and I paid. Two tickets came sliding out under the plastic screen, pushed by indifference.

“Thanks,” I said. Nothing.

Next was the information guy. Now, the information guy lives in a different plastic box. He has ‘information’ - that’s his thing. I needed to know the fastest way to get to Oxford. It seemed to me like information he could provide.

“Should I wait for the 7:32 or is it faster to get the 7:18 and change at Didcot?” I asked him.

“Wouldn’t have thought so,” said he, raising an eyebrow. He tapped away on his computer while I waited. I checked the booth to see if I hadn’t accidentally gone to the opinion kiosk instead of the information desk, but no, there was a big floating i. Perhaps the information would flow. Perhaps I needed to rein in the inner sarcasm.

“You want the 7:18 to Worcester. 8b.”

“Thanks,” I said.

Nothing.

The 7:18 rolled in at 7:50. It had been delayed outside London. I figured I still had plenty of time to get to Oxford and to the venue by 9am.

At about 8:40am, I was on a bus. The bus driver had confidently told me which stop I needed, and I was looking out for the sign.

It’s funny isn’t it. In cartoons and things, the bus driver’s often a sort of jolly soul, someone who hums to himself and doffs his cap as you climb aboard. He might wave to Mrs Cogsworthy or whistle a tune, stopping only to smile at you in the rear view mirror.

“Yeah this one,” he snarled as the bus slowed up. I pushed my suitcase to the front and waited.

“Are you sure?” I asked.

“This one!” said he, perhaps even less patiently. He pushed the button that opens the doors and a blast of cold air came in. “Get off the bus here,” he said, pointing at the pavement. I did so. A few moments later the sat nav confirmed that it was a) two stops too early, and b) a 15 minute walk.

I was late. It wasn’t a problem, other than I don’t much like being late. But a train journey of 20 minutes has been surrounded by so much waiting around and agitation from dismissive men behind plastic screens, that the whole thing had taken two hours.

Forgiveness then. I didn’t much like the fact that I had to exercise quite so much of it. But, I suppose, that is kind of the point. Sigh. Sometimes I think I still have a long way to go.