THE WRONG TRAIN

Good morning my dear reader and welcome to another Sunday at Chez Comb. I am a very happy soul this morning as it has rained a little and freshened things up a bit and filled up all our water butts. Ah, it doesn't take much to make me happy.  On reflection, Pond Man would not say that at the moment, but we will revisit him next week by which time he may have rejoined the world that is not all about ponds.

   The 'A' Level results have been released this week with the usual crop of ecstatic students delighted with their results and now looking forward to the world of university. It took me back a year or two, (who am I kidding), to my own time of application to various universities and subsequently, the all important interview.

   I was due for interview at a particular northern university and on the appointed day took myself off to Leeds City Station to catch the train. I checked on the platform and made my way there and sure enough the train was ready and waiting. A railway porter was loitering nearby and being a more cautious soul in those days I checked with him that this was indeed my train. He confirmed it was and on I got.

   The butterflies were beginning to flutter in my stomach and so I tried to occupy myself with magazines and my book. The ticket guard entered our crowded carriage and made his way down its length, checking everyone's tickets as he went. All was well, until he came to me. I gave him my ticket and he looked at it and then back at me in disbelief. 'What's this?' he cried - in a loud voice.  He was a gorgeously tall Jamaican and rolled his eyes dramatically at me. 'We aint going where you want to go, Miss. This is a non-stop express to London!!!'

   My, my, dear reader. I'm sure you can imagine the embarrassment and panic that  arose in my breast. Not only was I on the wrong train, going in the wrong direction, but it was non-stop. Kings Cross here I come. There would be no interview for me and who in their right minds would give such a numpty a second interview. I mean, I couldn't even find my way to the university.  As you can imagine I was more than a tad upset at the prospect of my precious university place disappearing before my eyes.

   Now in those days generally the British public vilified British Rail, but I have to tell you dear reader, that they were wonderful to me that day. The lovely ticket guard brought me coffee and sat with me until I had calmed down, promising to take me straight to a phone when we landed in Kings Cross, so that I could telephone home and begin to get things sorted out. Bless his heart he looked after me like his own daughter and after I had spoken to my father on the telephone, (who couldn't believe he had such a numpty for a daughter), escorted me back to the train and made sure I got on it for the return non-stop trip to Leeds.

   Meanwhile, my father, God bless his cotton socks, telephoned the university and explained the situation. Fortunately for me they did not instantly take their bat home and forever dismiss me from their hallowed portals. Instead they said they would send me another date for interview.  My Papa got the distinct sense that they found my situation quite amusing.

   Come the day of the next university interview, my dear Papa didn't risk me on the railway a second time. He firmly strapped me in the car, told me to sit tight and drove me there himself. With hindsight dear reader, I suspect the prospect of a near hysterical daughter arriving home a second time was too much to contemplate.

   At least I managed to negotiate my way around the university and find the correct department. I was directed to a particular room and on entry found it to be full of other candidates waiting their turn for interview. In bustled a young man, who introduced himself as head of the department. After a few preliminaries, he looked around the room and with a mischievous grin on his face asked if Patricia was here today. I looked around the room for any other Patricia's there might be - but there appeared to be none but me.  Cautiously I half raised my hand and the lecturer threw back his head and roared with laughter. Recovering himself and wiping his streaming eyes he proceeded to tell all the other students present of my hapless adventures on British Rail and how pleased he was to see that I had managed to make it to today's appointment.

   Horrible man. Why did he have to snitch on me so publicly? Would I ever live it down? Now everyone would know what  a twit I was and have a jolly good laugh at my expense. And so it proved to be my dear reader. Every time I met someone new, after a few moments that slow, knowing smile would spread across their face and 'weren't you the one that ...?' 

   But I'm not my mother's daughter for nothing, dear reader. What doesn't kill you makes you stronger and if any of my old friends tried to resurrect that one these days, I think they know what would be their fate at my hands now. Just sayin' ... you know who you are ....

   I hope you have a good week dear reader. I should be getting on with a book, but pond man has got me earmarked for barrowing heavy clay soil into a skip - unfortunately the skip is at the front of the house and the soil is at the back. I may be in for some sore muscles before I am done. I will never complain about hitting the keys of a hot laptop again, it has to be preferable to my forthcoming weeks's activities. Hey ho, see you next week, unless pond man plants me in the skip along the with soil.
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