Where the hell is Redditch?
I plod on to New Street wondering how much a taxi to Droitwich would cost … or to Cardiff? I am missing my computer and TV, I miss home and comfort, I miss Richard and the cat. I even miss his dad (but mostly the computer). Richard isn’t missing these but I think he would like to miss his dad. During my brief breakdown at the station, while I ponder ending it all, Richard is on the phone, upset. He’d be less upset if he didn’t have his dad in the background, brandishing a remote control and shouting that his telly isn’t working… again!
“Is the train going to Redditch?”
The guard checks the boards and answers in the affirmative.
“How often do the trains go?”
“Every hour – but if one is announced, take it – we have no guarantee whether the next one will as trains are all out of whack” (a technical term?)
The next train is in four minutes and I move like Mr Jelly on Skates towards platform ten – I am a veritable Tsunami when I have the mood on me!
I get on the Redditch train and four girls sit in the seats ahead of me. They continue to have mobile phone conversations in the quiet zone and then play music loudly, singing along until the train driver, like most of his colleagues pushed past the limit of endurance in this freak weather, leaves his cabin and shouts at them to turn it off or get off! Hurrah!
The station at Redditch is tiddly and Gavin and Amanda pick me up. I feel safe at last and we sit and have pizza and watch Midsomer Murder – ah normality. So dull, so boring, so blooming lovely!! I even watch the Tour de France – yellow is so last season and doesn’t suit the pale young man in the lead. I don’t like excitement and personal challenge –that’s what work is for.
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