Nottingham Part 4: 'Sex! and How To Get Some'

Right, I promise this is the last post: you're probably bored stiff by now. Here goes:

After a twenty minute wait after boarding the Transpennine express (I'm sure the officials on the other platform told me it was leaving now!), my third train of the day crept away noiselessly.

I glanced around the table where I was sat and noticed: an ugly middle-aged woman reading an bold red coloured book entitled 'Sex! and How To Get Some', a young male goth stabbing himself with a set of keys, and a smartly attired yet bearded business man sitting next to me reading the Financial Times. There was a piece of tuna on his stubble.

Not bothering not get out my copy of Northern Lights, I read the back page of the FT instead.

After a sweltering half-hour journey (did I mention it was hot?), we (me and my invisible friend Wharton) arrived in Manchester Piccadily. What a magnificent Victorian station building - at least I think it was 'cos it was completely smeared in a thick layer of pigeon shit.

Now, I had to get to Manchester Oxford Road in order to get a slow train home to my local station. The only way I could do this was by getting the same Citylink service that I had been on already, which was now cancelled.

Eventually, after paying 60p just to take a Goddamn piss (the machine broke so I had to pay twice: strewth! 30p is still a rip off anyway: I am a good railways customer: I have a season pass!), I managed to locate a platform with a train about to depart to Barrow-in-Furnace. Where this desolate valley town is I have no idea, but it was calling at Oxford Road, so I was thankful for that and promised myself to visit it someday.

Only three minutes later (I could have walked to Oxford Road actually) I arrived in the repeatedly aforementioned place. As I was departing my fourth train of the day, The train I needed next was just leaving at exactly the same time on the next platform. I missed it by a window length, and instead sat down to sob slowly into my sleeve.

By now I was starving like Nick after lunch (i.e. still ravenous) and dumped my bags in a locker and progressed to the station cafe. Unfortunately, it was not quite as inspiring as those American truck stop cafes, more like a very narrow Little Chef, but without the nice food. The decor was dated, the ground was grubby and the staff smelt like seawater.

Not quite the sandwich that I purchased. Mine contained more plastic, and I'm not talking about the wrapper

I reluctantly paid £3.50 for a stale and short dated ham and tomato sandwich. To tell the truth it tasted bloody amazing!

The next local train to Mossley Hill was not due for a whole other hour! Ah, a bit of Torquer detective work was in order. I wrenched open my local timetable and found that if I got a local-local train to Warrington, I could get another local-local train on the Liverpool end of the line to see me home.

Slightly pleased with myself, considering all, I boarded the penultimate train of the day and relaxed into the cigarette stained and unpadded seats.

I jumped off at Warrington and clutched my belongings tightly. This is not the place for an intrepid travelled at half past eight at night.

Finally, the final train arrived on time and perfectly positioned for myself to board through the leading side doors. It seems that the slowest, oldest and least-frequent services of the lot are always the most reliable.

After a brisk but awkward walk up the hill to me house (no buses for another 47 minutes dammit!), I collapsed over the familiar threshold and face first into the door mat. Tasted like old people.

My mothers' kind and friendly face beamed down and I was wrenched into the kitchen to explain why I was late: "I missed the train, OK, its all my fault," I lied, unwilling to begin my story for fatigue.