Awkward Moment on a Train

Those of you who know me, know how much I love trains. In theory, they are environmentally friendly, simple ways to travel. In reality, they are so expensive that it costs me twice as much as it does to drive anywhere. Over the years I've spent commuting between Cardiff and Dorset, I've been delayed by breakdowns, signal failures, hot weather, cold weather, rain, cows on the line and a malfunctioning steam train further up the line. I've sat with drunk people, funny people, creepy people, a man who re-enacts medieval battles and tells people about them on trains, and many normal people too.

There are advantages to travelling this way. One of the big ones for me is that, although it takes nearly twice as long to get to Wales as it would if I drove, I actually get a few hours of my life back. Instead of three hours concentrating on the speedy lumps of metal zooming by and the myriad of white stripes and yellow squiggles on tarmac, I can read, write, think and procrastinate on the interweb. The only time this falls through is on an extremely busy train, like the one I caught yesterday, which suddenly filled up at Bristol Temple Meads, making turning the pages of my book more difficult than it was worth. So I started people watching.

There were so many people squished on board, that for the most part, staring around the carriage was quite boring. However, the lady opposite me was absorbed in a complicated textbook with brain diagrams dotting the text. I tried to read it upside down, and failed. Something about 'resilience'. No idea. Got bored. Daydreamed a bit. Realised she was having a very important phone conversation and that I'd been bored without realising it. I was curious about her frantic scribbling of notes and really wanted to know what the book was about.

I could just ask, of course, but that sort of question has previously landed me in several hours of dire conversation with no way of escape until Southampton Central. So I chickened out. What I did do however, was Google the name she had written on her backpack in permanent marker. The Sherlock Holmes way of finding out what she was reading, or at least finding out something.

To my amazement, the result brought up an American billionaire heiress to a food company... and an art therapist with an OBE. I was just clicking on a search result which took me to Wikipedia, when her phone conversation ended, and the train jolted. Whoever she was, she had far better control of her personal belongings than I did, because whilst her phone was put neatly back into her pocket, mine leapt out of my hands and landed screen-up on the table between us, proudly displaying her own Wikipedia page.

She was good enough, or creeped out enough, not to say anything. Or maybe she was secretly pleased to get a Wikipedia hit, who knows? All I know is that it seemed an appropriate time to attempt reading my book again, I've banned myself from train travel for the foreseeable future, and I still don't know what she was reading.

11 DEC 09

Friday

I decided it was time to take the blagging on tour, first stop Reading. There wasn’t much blagging to be done on the train, but I tried out the ‘trick or deception’ criteria for a bit of harmless practice. The poor woman sat next to me now thinks she travelled to Reading with a trumpet-playing pet shop assistant who couldn’t think of one real pet shop in Cardiff to claim a link to. I blagged nothing from the conversation. I suppose I could really clutch at straws and say I blagged a glass of water at my brother’s house, but the fact that it was offered in a shot glass, as the only drinking receptacle without things growing in it, almost certainly nullifies any positive blag-points.

We were due to join a pirate pub crawl in the evening, but a friend of my brother had misplaced her ID card somewhere. I was just mulling over the blagging possibilities this presented for the evening, when I noticed that my brother had disappeared. Ten minutes later and he appeared at the doorway having knocked on various doors in the street and blagged a passport from a deluded and/or insane stranger a few houses down the road. He managed to do this dressed as a pirate. Amazing.

Misplacing forms of identification seemed to be one of the girl’s favoured hobbies and having rescued the passport from the floor of several bars I eventually pocketed it for safe keeping as a sort of second-hand blag.

I had a lovely chat with the girl behind one bar who agreed that I was proving to be a pretty poor blagger and offered to give me a lime and soda water. The retail price was only 15p, but beggars can’t be choosers. Sadly, the manager overheard and told me to go away. Another fail. I cheered myself up by blagging a drink from my brother, who probably owes me several anyway, and taking today’s newspaper with me. It didn’t appear to belong to anybody, and on the grounds that you can’t steal from nobody I figured it might be morally acceptable.

Our final destination was a quirky little club underneath a railway bridge. Determined to avoid the entry fee, I informed the bouncer that I’d just popped out and that the other guy said it would be fine to re-enter. It could have worked; I don’t have a particularly memorable face. It was another fail, probably not helped by the fact that the place was almost deserted on arrival, I was wielding a newspaper and dressed as a pirate.