Further ramblings of a self-made pauper

So anyway, Saturday was the day I chose to wander back off to the homestead in Sunny Shropshire to check on the aged P. Normally I'd go on Friday, but getting the time off was awkward and anyway, Saturdays are cheaper for traveling.

That said, weekends are the time that anyone involved with public transport in the UK takes the piss out of their clientele. This weekend they did it to the extent that the 150-odd miles took 61/2 hours door-to-door, Whetstone to Wem.

The Tube started it off. The Northern Line was suspended between East Finchley and oh, I don't know. Suffice it to say that I tubed from Whetstone to East Finchley and then found my self on the rail replacement bus service. That at least took me to Euston, but it did so in a skittish and disorderly fashion, taking an additional 40 minutes or so to get me there. I arrived at Euston at 1.20pm. The train departure turned out to be precisely 1.20pm. So, a wait of one hour, then. Plenty of time to buy a ticket, except that there was a power failure. So no ticket. Buy that on the train then.

Meantime, outside it started raining, but only that gentle stuff that racks up the humidity without really breaking the heat. Tra-la. One hour and a burger later, I am on the Virgin Trains service to Wolverhampton. Today, ladies and gentlemen, the service is stopping everywhere we can think of, AND traveling via Nuneaton. Oh, that'll be unexpected maintenance outside Birmingham then, will it?

Wonderful. That's a two hour trip turned three hours, then. Still, at least the Virgin Pandemonium Pandolino was reasonably empty so I could stretch out. Oh, yes. Air conditioned too, thank the gods. It rained quite heavily all the way north. And me without a coat on account of the previously stifling and all-pervasive heat. Tra-la.

Arrival, eventually, at Wolverhampton, with just enough time to be appalled by the station food and drink prices, but not enough time to be gouged by them, and it's on to the local dodger to Shrewsbury, the one that stops at every cattle-grid going west and occasionally backs up to make sure that the comfort levels don't top out. Still, at least we're moving.

Until Wellington, that is, when we unaccountably stop. The rain has stopped too, but it appears from collaring a functionary that there have been flash floods and that the track is both flooded along the line, and the water has shorted the points. There is much sage nodding from other functionaries, which is rather spoiled by the arrival from Shrewsbury - the direction we're headed - of a completely dry train.

Disgruntled driver, seeing his excuse blown out of the water, packs up sandwiches and gets back in the cab. We're off! Hurrah! More to the point, it becomes clear as we approach the supposedly flooded railway bridge, that it hasn't rained in that part of Shropshire since the early Devonian epoch. The driver, safely ensconced in the cab, refuses to be bantered by this and we continue heading west where I arrive to find my sister at the station ahead of me for the first time in recorded history.

And so on to Wem, where the temperatures are reassuringly stultifying and family members are either wilting in armchairs or bludgeoning the life out of each other on the flimsiest of pretexts.

Marvellous.

Still, on the journey home yesterday, I got back to Euston a full 15 minutes earlier than I expected to, and the driver apologised to everyone for only averaging 110mph on account of speed restrictions owing to the heat.

And it seems that I may have been over-optimistic about Dad, too, but I'll cover that at some other point.

Or not.

Chores to do now, which was the entire point of the additional day off.

Today is going to be interesting, I think. It will become ever more interesting as the day wears on and there is no sign in my inbox of an email from the Monster’s Private Office.

I have never before encountered someone who can take a decision – even an effective rubber-stamping – right up to the wire. And believe me when I say the wire is now very taut indeed. It is very hard to concentrate on anything when the butterflies are fluttering like this. There is no Plan B; her previous bouts of indecision have ensured that there is no time for a Plan B. There is only barely time for Plan A.

I hate this job sometimes.

Today your correspondent finds himself, metaphorically speaking, sitting under a very big funnel with a small nozzle pointed directly at him.

Every pigeon in Christendom is relieving itself in the funnel.

My only consolation is that the flex is not long enough to reach from the fan to the power outlet, otherwise mighty fun would ensue.

I am bearing this all so far with steadfast good humour, for my mood is bulletproof. That said, my reserves of patience are thin, and I am beginning to allow my trademark sarcasm and cynicism for all matters official pervade everything I do today. Call it a safety mechanism if you will. I like to think of it as siphoning off all those upsetting negative emotions and giving people the information they require to realise that today is going to be a bad day to upset me.

I am not upset yet, though, and I will recover, but the devil in my head is on an extremely short leash and he hasn't been exercised for a while. He's hungry and needs to stretch his legs. First person out of line gets him full force.

Most of you have never seen me lose my temper. It makes me feel good from time to time; I cannot say the courtesy is extended to people within its range.

Fair warning.

That is all.

Today has been a wash out, largely on account of my favourite person at work (If you can’t guess who that is, then you haven’t been paying attention). I am going to wander off soon, maybe take a peek in an HMV or Virgin Megastore, or some other digital media entertainment emporium. Or maybe I shall go home and just watch the current episodes of Stargate SG-1 and Battlestar Galactica before (or after) getting on with a bit more character writing.

Either way, I’m of shortly in the hope that tomorrow is less of a hassle and only a fraction as frustrating.

(Stopping only to scoff an unexpected doughnut).