the truth with pan-islandic train journeys

Train journey that I dream about:

1) Get on train.
2) Find a seat. By the window.
3) Watch rolling green hills whizz by while listening to Armin van Buuren.
4) Be fully dressed.
5) Have trolley filled with gin and tonics rattle past. Buy one.
6) Get to desired destination.
7) Get off train.

I dream of these types of journeys often. Like during a particularly stressful day at work. Just getting on a train headed for towns with hilarious names like Frimley or East Grinstead, where I can jump off, eat cheese, walk around the meadows in aquamarine wellingtons, and then when I’ve exhausted myself, get back on the train again for an equally wonderful journey.

Train journey that actually came to pass:

1) Friday scramble out of the office, carrying backpack full of clothes for a wedding.
2) Tube to station is delayed. Tick tock. It’s sweaty down here, the hone of mahoosively mingy armpit is rife.
3) Get to station, buy ticket.
4) Get onto train. Open door to toilet where I need to get changed into wedding-attendance attire.
5) Walk in on man having a wank.
6) Leave, appalled.
7) Then realise I have to go back in there because the other toilets are for first class travelers. Just because I’m cheap doesn’t mean I don’t need to wee, dicks.
8) Go back in, put laptop back on sink, and switch on automated water gushing ventricle, which sprays itself all over my [naked] MacBook, and clothes.
9) As I slide my stockings on, I rip a giant whole in them. Roughly over my klunjayjay area.
10) Since I’m wearing an extremely tight, short ruched crimpolene tube dress, this isn’t ideal.
11) Immediately stand on a wodge of wet toilet paper, soaking in human piss, on the floor.
12) Start sweating and mock charging.
13) Balance on one heel at a time.
14) Grab bag and find a seat in an already booked up train teetering on 6 inch heels. I don’t wish to stand for the two hour journey to Bournemouth.
15) See a sign that says, This is a South West train service to Weymouth & Poole. This train stops at Southampton where the train will divide, so please ensure you’re sitting in the correct section of this train. Then shows me that I’m in fact, NOT, sitting in the correct section of the train and will end up in fucking Weymouth unless I move.
16) Get up, teetering, falling over people’s feet, with bags in tow, and suddenly lose two earrings.
17) Like they are not in my ears. My new earrings with little pearly diamond things going on, one is now on the platform (how the fuck did it get there?) and one is probably in that fucking toilet.
18) Get out the train, the final whistle blows and a stern looking lady says I can’t get back on the train.
19) ‘But I’ve been here the whole fucking time! I’m just changing carriages so that I get to farking Bournemouth!’
20) She delays the driver and lets me on. For FUCK’S sake.
21) Get to new seat, with a very sweaty looking pikey sitting next to me.
22) Rummage in my bag. And realise I’ve left my new boot (one. Only one) in the toilet. I’ve lost my new boot.
23) Put makeup on, paint nails, while pikey stares at me. Not disconcerting at all.
24) Get a few phone calls from the Brit, that keep on being cut off every time I go under a bridge/when it feels like it. No rolling hills, just lots of trees.
25) Brit is already in Bournemouth and is drunk, so his loud ‘Woop woop woop’s!’ are going nowhere with me.
26) Massive sense of humour failure.
27) Get to wedding, have red wine spilt all over crimpolene tube I am wearing, within 5 minutes.

Conclusion: Train journeying is as unglamourous as Pete Doherty’s cocaine-dusted nostril.