on rails

I’ve not written from a train in awhile. I’ve not been on a train in awhile. Oh, I’ve been on the the tube and overground and that sort of thing, but those aren’t really trains. Real trains cross countries and borders, not cities. 

I’m off north to Scotland to drink wine and catch up with friends and wonder once again why I don’t here anymore. 

Last weekend I ‘performed’ at the Cornbury Music Festival, sometimes called ‘Poshstock’. There was wine and music. I learned I like the Peatbog Faeries more than the Gipsy Kings and survived on about 2 hours sleep over 48. We danced. We drank. We ate pulled pork. We angered bees sleeping soundly in their hive and had to run away.

I expect this weekend to be every bit as good. Perhaps without the getting chased by bees part, however.

morning tumble

I find it easier to get out of bed at 530 than at 715. I'm not sure why, but at 530 there's no flailing for the snooze button and crawling back under the duvet, curling back into the bit still warm. I tumble out and rub my eyes. The cat looks at me funny, if he's there. Sometimes he's gone for an early breakfast, and is returning up the stairs, surprised to find me stumbling down in the other direction. My legs take awhile to work in the mornings, due to a condition called 'getting older' and getting down the stairs is precarious to say the least. At 715, I know I can get away with a minute here or there. An extra 9 in bed can be made up by skipping a shave or espresso. In fact, my espresso machine is on the fritz at the moment. Verging on calamity, that.

At 530, though, there isn't time to mess about. If I've set my alarm for so ungodly an hour, it's because I have something to do. Make wine; catch a plane; make a train. Something that just won't wait is afoot, and somewhere along my staggered road to being a grown-up, I've managed a degree of diligence in such things. I don't like it. I like waking up at 930.

930 is early enough that you can have breakfast without it reducing the appetite for lunch, while still giving you the satisfaction of not waking up at 530, 630, 730 or 830.

In any case, I made my train with ten minutes to spare. The tube was quiet, and the train nearly empty. Heading north as the bleak turns to dreich. It's a random trip, this. I'm not sure what on earth I'm doing, but hopefully I'll work it out by the time I head back tomorrow.

Posted with Blogsy

the big soak and back again

There should have been a middle post. A post from the train south, a post from London, and then a post from the train back north. But I'm on the train back north and there was no post from London. So now the flatlands rush by the window and the memories of the last five days skip by along with them. My finger traces the bit I missed shaving this morning. I wonder if it's too OCD to grab my razor out of my suitcase, nip into the WC and sort those three or four of whiskers out once and for all. I decide against it. The train is not entirely stable and I'm pretty sure my punishment for such fussy vanity would be for a sudden jolt to result in me gouging a chunk out of my cheek.

A few memories draw a smile. Cowering under a gazebo, catching up with friends, hiding from the rain and swirling a glass of Burgundy while toddlers play and shout in the bouncy castle. Standing on a terrace by the Thames, sipping a pint and watching the party boats slip by under Hammersmith Bridge whilst the sun begins to set. Sitting in a pub with my publisher as he scanned the first scraps of my book with enthusiastic approval. A long awaited interview, with a long awaited result.

Home is always a mixed bag, though, and the passage of time tells more in some places than others.

Things are looking up, though, and I'll be back soon.

Posted with Blogsy

small note

The changing times... I'm on a train from London to Edinburgh - it stops at Newcastle on the way. Through the free wi-fi connection I noticed the breaking news on the 'net that Geordie legend Kevin Keegan has once again been given the job as manager of Newcastle United. Within minutes, a chorus of text beeps and odd ring tones rang throughout the carriage, followed by a chorus of Geordie accents asking the people on the other line if they'd heard the news. A few muttered lines of punter opinion followed and there are whispers throughout the train, among fellow Geordies, strangers talking about the announcement. 

Everyone knew within minutes. 

We're on a train.