To Nottingham

Month of patience not going well. In fact, cannot remember single day successfully completed without losing rag, since started last week.

Highlight of rag losing was this Friday, when set out on journey to aged aunt and uncle who live in Nottingham. This entailed getting train to London, tube to Kings Cross St Pancras as they like to call it, and thence train to Nottingham.

Manage to buy advance ticket for relatively reasonable price of £39 return.

Stand all way to Waterloo station as train packed. Stand all way from Waterloo to Kings Cross St Pancras as tube packed. Arrive at Kings Cross in search of St Pancras, which when find, realise have forgotten has been refurbished since last visit, and now resembles airport terminal. Remember this pile getting ton of praise when opened. Walk up and down, sagging under weight of luggage, amidst toiling masses, including foreign toiling masses decanted from Eurostar, past acres of every upmarket café franchise known to man, and vast range of high value designer shops. If in search of Le Pain Quotidien chocolate croissant; Benugo blueberry muffin; moleskin book from Foyle’s; set of matching bra and French knickers from La Senza; or octopus sushi, then there is no doubt St Pancras place to be. As however, want to find train, have definitely come to wrong place. Stagger up and down past seat loads of Quotidian coffee quaffing hordes, until miss train as cannot find platforms. No signage to indicate that trains not on concourse you are trudging over, no, that would be far too plebeian design-wise. Much better to have trains at furthest end from entrance up escalator that is not signed. Enraged to find have missed train. Have to fork out extra £45 for new tickets. Restore outraged temperament by visiting upmarket coffee outlet to do mystery shopping as coffee outlet have just won catering contract at noble employers. Fetching French employee in white cap like sailor in ‘On the Town’ mysteriously offer me bagel over counter. Not sure what this mean, may involve money, so politely refuse. Fetching employee shrug and go off to sweep floor. Buy croissant from additional fetching French employee. Leave and then feel sorry for bagel wielder, so go back and order cappuchino. About 10 minutes later, cappuccino finally fill plastic cup as blood pressure rises much more speedily.

Head for overhead platforms.

Stop at mysterious bottleneck of passengers by gate onto platform when finally find train. Note, as frantically dig in pocket for train ticket, mysterious light brown pool forming around sandals. This, it seems, is overturned upmarket cappuccino leaching through downmarket brown carrier bag. Feel certain this not the kind of thing that would have happened to Audrey Hepburn prior to her getting Orient Express to Venice.

Now have ¼ cup of luke-warm cappuccino. Train full, and do not have seat reservation. Grateful to find pull down seat in corridor by door, less grateful when train pull out and find wind whistling up trousers through gap in door. Consider that two hours long time to have wind whistling up trews. Sulk all way to Nottingham.

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