I don't often visit this particular forum, but here goes about last Sunday, 15 September.
Having had elderly members of the family visiting, who had brought a huge, heavy and cumbersome bag with them which I had to handle, they were returning from Paddington to the West Country, booked on the 1835 from Paddington. We get there somewhat early, and I notice an 1802, also considerably faster, getting them there about an hour ahead, and looks the better option. However things were significantly disorganised, as ever; both the 1800 Plymouth and 1802 are still at the "Please Wait" stage as 1800 approaches, for which I have to rebut "which platform" questions about every 30 seconds. Turns out that it's scheduled for no more than a 22 minute turnround, from and to Penzance, which sounds quite inappropriate, and was inevitable somewhat late in, like everything else. So finally on the board about 1800, the Wildebeest-like stampede of several hundreds starts, for which we are outpaced. Now in between all the "which platform" questions had been me saying "right down to the front, always lots of seats there", but oh no, completely overridden by a self-induced panic about "it's leaving", and I am forced into joining a queue for almost the first Standard carriage.
Finally in, I heave bag up onto top rack, seats all now taken or reserved, into next carriage, finally get them into two. Sighs of relief. Farewells, I mention casually not to forget bag now one coach back, whereupon panic-stricken faces, "it will be stolen" (yeah, right, even someone fit could never run with that dilapidated old colossus), start of staggering up to retrieve it, hyperventilating, the lot. So it's me who now has to go back two coaches, retrieve bag, then push forward along gangways banging into and past everyone yet again, up into rack of own coach. Finally achieved. Look out of the window ...
We're moving.
7 minutes since it went up on the board. No announcement. And so I make an unexpected trip to Reading. Fortunately no ticket inspection. It's an unnerving sensation doing an unticketed 125mph in the wrong direction into the evening, I can tell you. And then turn round and come back, now ticketed. I did of course walk forward in the meantime and found the front coach, as predicted, half empty. Given the fatigue, an Elizabeth Line service direct from there home to Canary Wharf looks tempting, never done this before, however how tedious all those stops (and all the overtakes by trains on the fast line). At Canary Wharf the final stretch, a few stops on the DLR, is closed for the weekend, and an RRB sets off just as I approach the stop. So I walk home.
Phew!
Having had elderly members of the family visiting, who had brought a huge, heavy and cumbersome bag with them which I had to handle, they were returning from Paddington to the West Country, booked on the 1835 from Paddington. We get there somewhat early, and I notice an 1802, also considerably faster, getting them there about an hour ahead, and looks the better option. However things were significantly disorganised, as ever; both the 1800 Plymouth and 1802 are still at the "Please Wait" stage as 1800 approaches, for which I have to rebut "which platform" questions about every 30 seconds. Turns out that it's scheduled for no more than a 22 minute turnround, from and to Penzance, which sounds quite inappropriate, and was inevitable somewhat late in, like everything else. So finally on the board about 1800, the Wildebeest-like stampede of several hundreds starts, for which we are outpaced. Now in between all the "which platform" questions had been me saying "right down to the front, always lots of seats there", but oh no, completely overridden by a self-induced panic about "it's leaving", and I am forced into joining a queue for almost the first Standard carriage.
Finally in, I heave bag up onto top rack, seats all now taken or reserved, into next carriage, finally get them into two. Sighs of relief. Farewells, I mention casually not to forget bag now one coach back, whereupon panic-stricken faces, "it will be stolen" (yeah, right, even someone fit could never run with that dilapidated old colossus), start of staggering up to retrieve it, hyperventilating, the lot. So it's me who now has to go back two coaches, retrieve bag, then push forward along gangways banging into and past everyone yet again, up into rack of own coach. Finally achieved. Look out of the window ...
We're moving.
7 minutes since it went up on the board. No announcement. And so I make an unexpected trip to Reading. Fortunately no ticket inspection. It's an unnerving sensation doing an unticketed 125mph in the wrong direction into the evening, I can tell you. And then turn round and come back, now ticketed. I did of course walk forward in the meantime and found the front coach, as predicted, half empty. Given the fatigue, an Elizabeth Line service direct from there home to Canary Wharf looks tempting, never done this before, however how tedious all those stops (and all the overtakes by trains on the fast line). At Canary Wharf the final stretch, a few stops on the DLR, is closed for the weekend, and an RRB sets off just as I approach the stop. So I walk home.
Phew!
