After a product and technology demonstration that went better than might have been expected, I wandered out onto the rain soaked streets of Harrogate this morning, and contemplated the journey home. Trusting my instincts (that aren’t entirely reliable at the best of times), I followed my nose through the streets in the general direction of the railway station, and miraculously found my way directly to it. It would have been easier of course if there were any signs within the town, rather than just the major traffic intersections on the outskirts.
After discovering that there were no trains direct to Kings Cross in London, I very nearly got on the wrong train - by pure luck I checked a train times app on my mobile while waiting for the train to arrive, and discovered my mistake.
I would like to regale all kinds of other adventures en-route towards home, but there really weren’t any beyond sitting next to a couple of elderly ladies in York while waiting for my train, and then the station announcer telling us 50 times about a change of platform for our train. I couldn’t quite believe the idiot people stood around asking each other what they were going to do - it wasn’t difficult… just walk to platform 5 instead of staying on platform 3… it beggared belief.
Kings Cross was it’s usual idiotic self - with people running for trains they were going to just miss, pushing in front of people, and generally being rude, and in a rush like so many people in London seem to be. It’s also interesting how people who work in London all look similar - following fashion like sheep. The trend at the moment seems to be quilted riding jackets, which was pretty funny given that my aunt has horses, so to me they are a practical item worn by riders, farmers, and other people who work on the land.
After half an hour squashed in the corner of an underground train, I then spent another three quarters of an hour squashed in the corner of a train towards home - jailed by an unthinking idiot who dumped his folding bike in front of me, also imprisoning a young woman who stood with her bike for the entire journey.
After a final change of trains, the last leg of the journey was made entertaining by a sleeping drunk wearing spectacular trousers. He woke with a start, stood, wobbling all over the carriage, and blurted out a stream of questions;
“Where are we? Is this Maidenhead? Where is this train going? Am I there yet?”
He then laughed at himself, sat back down with a thump, and I informed him where we were going. He tried to look all sensible, and fiddle with his phone, but fell asleep again - head tipped forwards, and began snoring.
I arrived at our front door, banged the door knocker, and heard little feet race through the house. Miss Seven and Miss Eight met me in their nighties, and did an instant download of everything in their head as I took my shoes off, and struggled into the house.