Dec 5th 2009 DMF-LONDON
Carlisle. Is it pedantic of me to feel quizzical as ‘15.09,’ the scheduled departure time for my train, clicks up on the electric clock over the empty platform while the information panel above still reads ‘London Euston 15.09. On Time’
Is this the ‘newspeak’ of the rail network? A train isn’t late as long as the board says it’s on time. There’s always a hope the customers won’t notice. I am gratified however to note that the board also advertises ‘Buffet service.’ Will that be separate from the ‘On-Board Shop selling a variety of hot and cold beverages, snacks…” ?
As this train of thought loses the will to live, the snout of a locomotive comes in view and the 15.09 to London Euston oozes into Carlisle at 15.10. Still ‘On time’.
I was genuinely impressed by the friendly and quick service when booking my seat at Dumfries station-
(Once I’d located a member of staff- ‘Office closed while attending to other duties. Please consult staff on platform.’ Says the notice. There were no staff on the platform.
“Hallo-oo… Hallo?” (etc) Wondering if Wully McHay might make an appearance out the mist…)
I digress-
Genuinely impressed by the Scotrail ticket office service, I still wasn’t too surprised to find when I got on board the train at Carlisle that the seat with a socket I had requested didn’t materialise. However, the train wasn’t busy and adjacent there was an entirely unreserved bay (‘This seat has not been reserved’ – Now, don’t tell me I’m going to get boosted from HERE…) So, no bother.
Coach D is an airy ‘Voyager’-model carriage (so I’m told) with a poky wee counter at one end but arranged in the old style with 4 seats to a window. A proper carriage in contrast to the claustrophobic Pendolino cigar tube with its seats and windows in no particular relation to each other (The Spanish AVE manages it, why can’t Virgin, eh?) Remarkable how this instantly makes the train ride innately more pleasurable.
Even if the journey on a Saturday afternoon is scheduled to take over an hour longer than usual…
Nothing on the website to explain this anomaly. A phone call to National Rail can only confirm the journey time so at Carlisle I ask a clutch of platform staff – (No longer in those ridiculous teddy bear greatcoats. No wonder they used to hide) Two immediately bleed away into the background.
Yes, the timetable is correct, says the third. The reason: engineering works after Preston.
Ah. But the website didn’t say anything about this.
“ I can’t comment on that”
Of course not. So we will be going more slowly?
“And be diverted via Manchester”....
The On Board Shop, which really is like an old style buffet- (I’m feeling more and more affectionate towards my Voyager Coach D)– can’t process any card transactions. This doesn’t bother me, and they do have functioning hot water and enough change (for now).
The lavatory at the end of the carriage towards First Class is out of order. The one right at the other end of Coach C is functioning. Bit tough if you’re an old dear with dodgy pins and a weak bladder using one of the Priority Seats in this carriage. Usual sticky glaze of dried fluids on the floor with garnish of tissue. The soap, water and dryer all work, though, “Hurrah!”
‘Is this toilet squeaky clean?’ Well, no, not really, but who honestly is going to peer up at the train manager as he comes by, and tell him; still less and go and find a member of on board staff , and say ‘By the way- Actually- the lavatory that is working wasn’t really that squeaky clean… Actually.”?
If no one says anything, it must be fine. “Well, we have very few complaints…” Oh, Brave New World.
CHRISTMAS
21/12/09 LONDON-DUMFRIES
When I arrived at Euston at 11.15, the station heaving with Christmas cheer, packed into a thousand fucking house-sized suitcases on fucking wheels, the platform for the 11.30 Glasgow train had not been announced- ‘Still Preparing’ in Virgin Speak. The concourse is packed, rank upon rank of Christmas travellers all peering up like hopeful shepherds at the information screens.
I have time to buy a tea and baguette from Upper Crust, where only one girl is serving but, remarkably, deals with the pressure with grace and efficiency. Mercifully, no one in front wants a mochachino with extra nuts. Now experienced in the ways of corporate snack provision, I give her all the information up front :
“Brie baguette, please. Medium tea.”
“Milk?” (Damn!)
“Sure”
She's slick and quick, a pleasure to watch when time is short but, as she turns to me with my orders, she can’t resist asking “Any cakes, pastries, blah blah.” Two-point fault at the double gate.
“No, I just want a train, now. Please. The smile fixed, shark-like, on my face. She laughs and, having recovered at the last fence, deserves the monstrous 25 pence tip I leave with the change.
The 11.35 to Tring is announced. The 11.40 to Manchester. The 11.30 hangs at the end of the row of screens in a state of ‘Preparing’ A mother mutters to her daughter, “Well, they’ll have to announce it soon.” A puppy whines anxiously.
11.23.30. a female voice drones “The train at Platform 8 is the 11.30-- and like grey hounds out of the trap the crowd surges forward, a vanguard of scuttling students, trailing luggage like runaway chariots, weaving back and forth, regardless of whose path they cross. Like a flock of starlings we wheel left as one onto the top of the ramp to the platforms. I am relieved, to see they have not decided to hold a ticket check at the barrier. As we surge down, a clutch of boot-faced Virgin staff scowl on the sidelines, looking on with disdain as this tide of customers races to get try and get a seat for their £92. I wonder if they have been stood down because of the late announcement and feel thwarted. “All that potentially lost revenue…”
I have a seat reserved A 43A, so-called Airline, in the so-called Quiet Coach, so I am moderately relaxed but I always feel the need to get on as soon as possible to avoid any possible embuggerance, at least secure a space for luggage, maybe (but probably not today), ‘upgrade’ to a table, even. (I think not, today)
It’s no surprise to see that there are no reservations indicated in the electronic panels above the seats. Just as well to be on board early, then. I resign any hope of upgrading as the train is obviously hopelessly over-subscribed Chaos ensues as the main body of passengers floods aboard. With weary resignation, people mill around, as much as that is possible in the narrow tube of the carriage, looking for free seats, trying to identify booked seats, stow their luggage. It’s all remarkably good-natured. Finally, the ‘Manager’ comes on the tannoy, “Welcome on board this Virgin Pendolino to Glasgow… As this is a busy service this morning, the First Class coaches will be blah, blah, blah and coach G will now be Standard Class.” So the peons who have booked ahead struggle to deal with the fact that no reserved seats are marked while the foolish Virgins get a nice roomy ride. To be fair, given the season, a lot of people may have tried to reserve and failed.
Gradually, people have sorted themselves out but as the train departs, presumably late but I wasn’t paying attention, the computer finally posts the reservation notices. Those in unreserved seats, good naturedly give up their hard won seats, but a woman is still moving up and down trying to identify her reserved seats, perplexed by the fact that they are occupied but also by the fact that some seats are missing their numbers. Next to me, I have an elderly mittel European gent travelling with his granddaughter who, having struggled into the window seat then spills over into my allotted space: feet, legs, arse, shoulders. It gets a little tense when he spreads out to read his newspaper as if he was in a café but we bond over the poor design of the carriage and the generally shit service. The woman re-appears, having been told by the guard just to get a seat in the de-classified coach but there are only two seats free and with her daughters she is three so, reasonably enough, they want to sit together. She has plucked up courage to ask people to move and they settle down next to me. It turns out the anxious puppy is theirs. He whines insistently, no doubt picking up the waves of stress running up and down the carriage.
12.46. Things have quietened down. No more developments. The Manager turns up to check tickets. A friendly man, his face dry and red with stress. I ask why the Glasgow train always seems to be announced so late. “Just a quick turn around, really. We didn’t leave very late, just a few minutes. We normally have 30 minutes.”
My point is that with only five minutes to get a whole trainload of passengers boarded and with the reservations not marked it is chaotic. It turns out the computerised reservation system was frozen and it requires a minimum of 15 minutes to upload reservations and with the train coming in late from Wolverhampton or Birmingham, there wasn’t time resolve the matter.
Well, let’s hope we don’t lose any more time. In the mean time it is getting hotter and hotter…
Lovely day outside though.
Go for a coffee and come back to find the old gent and his daughter have panicked thinking I had got off at Oxenholme and were trying to hand my laptop to someone on the platform. This all confided by the Glaswegian lady with the needy puppy.
Things are getting tight. The guard says there’s no guarantee the Dumfries train will be held
Carlisle. We arrive as the Dumfries train is due to leave. The door from Carriage A onto the platform is blocked by luggage piled high. Pell mell over the bridge and round to platform 7. All well. It’s been held. Or was it merely running late as well?
RETURN DUMFRIES-LONDON
8.1.10 19.55. Call Virgin to try to reserve a seat for tomorrow. At 20.25, I hang up after half an hour of a
female voice with a slight Indian accent saying “Thank you for holding” every 20 seconds. Was there something I didn’t understand about “Bear with me while I connect you with someone who can help.”? As an experiment, I dial again. Exactly the same drill. Give up after another five minutes. Cursing vilely. What about “We are experiencing high volume of calls’? What about “Leave us your number and someone will call you back without losing your place in the queue.” Fuck their eyes. May they die screaming in flames.
Up early and call at 9.00. Try again. First attempt. I intone ‘Something Else.’ The ‘option’ draws a blank. Asking for ‘Existing Booking’ gets me put through to ‘Purchase a ticket’. Fuck. Not in the mood for this. Third attempt. ‘Existing booking’. Hallelujah. First the obligatory confusion about my wishing to book the return half of my journey which I repeat about five times. WHY IS IT SO FUCKING DIFFICULT? Complicated rigmarole about my reference number, which, it turns out is now on the ticket. Good. She goes off with two possible train times. All I ask is for a socket seat ( i.e .‘& table’). She eventually comes back and has got me a seat on the 13.55- first choice but no table. Still: Result! Try to flirt with her to make up for my monosyllabic curtness (the only way I can avoid unhelpful sarcasm).
Carlisle. 14.49. Expected at 14.52. Not too bad. Gentle enquiry of usual trio of cucculli platform staff meets with usual dour sense of “Don’t ask me.”
“Are things running smoothly down the line- as smoothly as can be expected?”
“Good as can be expected.” Then a condescending snort, “We can’t tell what’s going on there from here..”
What?
At W.H.Smith, buying Guardian, invited to buy Telegraph and get my water free. What? “Do you get many takers?” I ask. “No!” She laughs.
Train now expected at 14.55 and duly slides in. Coach C not very busy. Don’t bother to look for my seat as there a plenty of tables only occupied by one person. Even a window seat unreserved. Opposite a hungover-looking actor in front of a photocopy script of ‘Witness for the Prosecution’. Looks about as much fun as it sounds. He stares glumly out the window. As we get under way he drops his head with a theatrical sigh.
Very soon we stop in the middle of blank, white Cumberland farmland. At Penrith we stop for even longer. Signal problems apparently. By Lancaster we are 40 minutes behind schedule. ‘Lineside equipment.’ – i.e. it’s not Virgin’s fault.
When was it they re-launched this line?
Ride in perpetual gloaming from Penrith down to Morecambe Bay. Gleam of silver off water. Blencathra in low light from west, its profile traced against peach sky and its usually dark bulk, misty and translucent in silvery fore light.
Still- loos working. ‘Shop’ hot drinks functioning. Won’t tempt fate any further ….
It’s the ‘Voyager’ effect
-=-
Early March: Journey LONDON_DMF LONDON Trouble free! If only life could always be this dull.
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