Training
What ho proles! Travelling on business and that means - First Class! Of course, casually flicking the 'V' sign at those packed like cattle in the lower classes could, in these egalitarian times, be considered rude or out of touch - but fuck them, they should have kissed arse like me, go promoted and finally been allowed to travel first class on business.
Mind you, we are talking train, so there's the tremendous drag factor of bouncing along on rails unmaintained since Brunell laid them, but it's still great fun - and you get as much tea as you can drink (a lot, in case you're wondering).
Travelled from St Pancras. This station will house the new Eurostar terminal next year and, I have to say, is an excellent example of what happens when you get a hose with an eight inch bore, stick one end in a huge pot of money and then turn that bad boy to 'blow'. The new station interface with the underground is fantastic. I remember the shitty old one - scene of that horrible fire - it was like a natural cave, not a station. Cranes dominate the skyline and everything is wrapped in protective plastic. The place is already looking good - they've cleaned the dome that sits over the top of the platforms (must have a technical name) - probably for the first time since it was glazed.
Not complete yet is the first class lounge. This is currently what could charitably be described as a Portakabin. Okay, on the inside it might be opulent beyond the dreams of normal men, but I wasn't going to cross the threshold.
The trains are all shiny and new - the rolling stock, however, is still the old, old stuff. Refurbished, but with slam doors. Maybe they decided that they'll just wait a few years, call it 'heritage' stock and charge you extra for travelling in it.
I caught an early train and, taking my seat, saw that the seat across from me was reserved as well. There I sat, wondering who my travelling companion would be, hoping for some glamour model, knowing it was more likely to be a turetts spitter. In the end, it was a no show, so I am by turns melancholy and relieved.
Odd to be the only one without a suit. When travelling I prefer jeans and gor-tex - you never know what a journey might involve. As a result I look ready to attack the north face of the Eiger, rather than a tricky spreadsheet. David Lodge writes an excellent description of first class and mufti in his book 'Therapy'. Once again, my life is imitating art...except I have more hair than his hero.
Of course the journey back is fraught with peril. First of all one comes onto the platform in the middle of the train and the first class accommodation is 'towards the front'. But which end is the front? Trek past various smokers dragging their last on the platform to get to the wrong end. Then troop back up the length of the train, looking into the standard class carriages. This leads to a quandary - go into standard class and strike up a conversation with one of the common - but filthy - looking girls sitting therein, or be lured by free tea to first class, where you will enjoy the company of fat businessmen.
I chose the latter, of course.
Mind you, we are talking train, so there's the tremendous drag factor of bouncing along on rails unmaintained since Brunell laid them, but it's still great fun - and you get as much tea as you can drink (a lot, in case you're wondering).
Travelled from St Pancras. This station will house the new Eurostar terminal next year and, I have to say, is an excellent example of what happens when you get a hose with an eight inch bore, stick one end in a huge pot of money and then turn that bad boy to 'blow'. The new station interface with the underground is fantastic. I remember the shitty old one - scene of that horrible fire - it was like a natural cave, not a station. Cranes dominate the skyline and everything is wrapped in protective plastic. The place is already looking good - they've cleaned the dome that sits over the top of the platforms (must have a technical name) - probably for the first time since it was glazed.
Not complete yet is the first class lounge. This is currently what could charitably be described as a Portakabin. Okay, on the inside it might be opulent beyond the dreams of normal men, but I wasn't going to cross the threshold.
The trains are all shiny and new - the rolling stock, however, is still the old, old stuff. Refurbished, but with slam doors. Maybe they decided that they'll just wait a few years, call it 'heritage' stock and charge you extra for travelling in it.
I caught an early train and, taking my seat, saw that the seat across from me was reserved as well. There I sat, wondering who my travelling companion would be, hoping for some glamour model, knowing it was more likely to be a turetts spitter. In the end, it was a no show, so I am by turns melancholy and relieved.
Odd to be the only one without a suit. When travelling I prefer jeans and gor-tex - you never know what a journey might involve. As a result I look ready to attack the north face of the Eiger, rather than a tricky spreadsheet. David Lodge writes an excellent description of first class and mufti in his book 'Therapy'. Once again, my life is imitating art...except I have more hair than his hero.
Of course the journey back is fraught with peril. First of all one comes onto the platform in the middle of the train and the first class accommodation is 'towards the front'. But which end is the front? Trek past various smokers dragging their last on the platform to get to the wrong end. Then troop back up the length of the train, looking into the standard class carriages. This leads to a quandary - go into standard class and strike up a conversation with one of the common - but filthy - looking girls sitting therein, or be lured by free tea to first class, where you will enjoy the company of fat businessmen.
I chose the latter, of course.
1 Comments:
didn't know you had a thing for fat businessmen.
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