All Change, Please.

There I was – the time? 6.30AM. Location? My bedroom. I stared longingly out of the bedroom window on the morning of Friday, 22nd January – wondering how I would cope with the three-and-a-half hour train ride down to Southampton. Exactly one glass of water and two slices of white toast later, I arrived at my local train station.

Now, it was still pretty early in the morning (McDonald’s was still serving it’s breakfast menu) – so I decided to buy a coffee so that I didn’t look out of place with all the super-cool, upper class business people that I was about to share a train with to London Victoria. I took my seat and tried just a sip of my coffee, and I must say – British Rail has done it again! Somehow, all hot beverages served from stations in the south east are served at above boiling point, which, naturally, caused my eyes to water to the extent that I was able to actually clean the carriage I was in with my bitter, pain-induced tears – making it the first moment in recorded history that a commuter train had been cleaned, at all, ever. The train ride to London took about an hour, with me sitting there – staring out of the window as if I was on some sort of futuristic safari in which the “pure breed” are invited to be chauffeured through the dark, “fragrant” depths of Deptford – snarling and giggling at the less fortunate stumble around outside looking for jobs to do in an apparently “recession free” Great Britain.

As the train slowly clunked into the station – a beautiful thing happened. You see, from London Victoria, I had to get to Clapham Junction (which wins the “Most interesting-and-or-disturbing smells for a public service facility award, 2010) – which meant running across the whole length of London Victoria station as my train and the train to the junction were on separate sides. Little did I know, the train I needed was there already – and to make the scene more perfect – about 70% of my train’s passengers wanted that service too. It was like being in a film; row upon row of nameless uniforms stood up, all with facial emotions to suggest that someone had left a Dolly Parton CD playing, waiting for the doors to slide open – and sure enough, when they did - *boom* - I was catapulted into the first thirty seconds of “Saving Private Ryan”. In horde, we shot across the station – jumping out of the way of strategically placed bins, and hopelessly lost tourists to the relative safety of the bunker / 09.32 service to Clapham Junction. Most of us made it. Some didn’t.

Lest we forget.

After another two-and-a-half hours, I rolled into a rather rainy Southampton station. Using the map I had scrawled on the back of Sainsbury’s receipts, it took me just twenty minutes to make the ten minute walk to the university – which is when things got…’interesting’. Firstly, I accidentally walked into a lecture, which caused me to freeze like a deer in the front headlights of a twelve-point-three tonne lorry carrying schoolbooks, before disappearing without becoming metaphorical road kill. Fortunately, almost seven hours after I originally left – I made it in time for my interview. This is when I got my “super-special surprise”. Guess what? They had closed my course. Really. They hadn't even told me! My course was no longer existent – leaving me with nothing more to do than admit defeat – and begin the long, tedious journey back home.

Peace

PS. My girlfriend is working on an art project that is taking her a long time. Thing is - its already a billion times better than what I can, or will ever be able to do - she's very talented! Will be "awesome" (she doesn't like that word - all the more reason to use it!) -to see the final project!