I have been commuting!!!

Years ago, I used to travel into town from an Essex commuter town that must remain nameless and secret. Later, I upgraded to London accommodation, my choice of area governed by – and this is 100% true – a radius of one bladder’s worth at closing time from the pubs near my place of employment.

Now I just walk downstairs, unless I have important meetings, which have been frequent this week. In this case, I need to get the TRAIN TO LONDON.

The line from King’s Lynn to London is one of the great railway journeys of the world. This is for two reasons – a) the ticket collector is quite friendly, and b) there is a proper café at the station who will do you a bacon sandwich and a tea just how you like it.

If I am ever asked to go on the popular BBC television programme ‘Room 101′, my main thing to choose apart from people who make modifications to their cars, R & B singers doing duets, marzipan, obsequious MPs at Prime Minister’s question time, Anthony Worrell-Thompson, Realplayer, diversity awareness training, people who send you ‘amusing’ email circulars, the film ‘Sliding Doors’, car stereos that you can’t understand, Otis Ferry, the man in charge of buying apples in supermarkets, ground elder, JD Wetherspoons, silver service dining and anything that has ever been presented, endorsed or touched by Noel Edmonds, will be ‘retail facilities at airports and stations’.

It is clear that retail facilities at airports and stations are rubbish. They are the soul-destroying arse end of the processed food industry. The staff in there have no means, ability or incentive to sell you anything that is not on the ten-point laminated overpriced menu. And yet they proliferate, like a rash.

Railtrack once trumpeted the results of a huge ‘customer consultation’ questionnaire process. “You said,” thundered big posters, “that you wanted more of your favourite retailers at our stations. We’ve listened. More are coming soon!”

The posters had to be withdrawn. Actually, people had said that they’d quite like the trains to run on time, thank you very much, and had not at all requested another Tie Rack, ‘Jardin du Paris’ or – God help us – Whistlestop.

I don’t know how long the café at King’s Lynn will be there. Sooner or later somebody will realise that three branches of Burger King will bring in more rent.

But it’s brightened up what has been a fairly tedious week. So I commend it to you for the weekend.

I have been commuting!!!

Years ago, I used to travel into town from an Essex commuter town that must remain nameless and secret. Later, I upgraded to London accommodation, my choice of area governed by – and this is 100% true – a radius of one bladder’s worth at closing time from the pubs near my place of employment.

Now I just walk downstairs, unless I have important meetings, which have been frequent this week. In this case, I need to get the TRAIN TO LONDON.

The line from King’s Lynn to London is one of the great railway journeys of the world. This is for two reasons – a) the ticket collector is quite friendly, and b) there is a proper café at the station who will do you a bacon sandwich and a tea just how you like it.

If I am ever asked to go on the popular BBC television programme ‘Room 101′, my main thing to choose apart from people who make modifications to their cars, R & B singers doing duets, marzipan, obsequious MPs at Prime Minister’s question time, Anthony Worrell-Thompson, Realplayer, diversity awareness training, people who send you ‘amusing’ email circulars, the film ‘Sliding Doors’, car stereos that you can’t understand, Otis Ferry, the man in charge of buying apples in supermarkets, ground elder, JD Wetherspoons, silver service dining and anything that has ever been presented, endorsed or touched by Noel Edmonds, will be ‘retail facilities at airports and stations’.

It is clear that retail facilities at airports and stations are rubbish. They are the soul-destroying arse end of the processed food industry. The staff in there have no means, ability or incentive to sell you anything that is not on the ten-point laminated overpriced menu. And yet they proliferate, like a rash.

Railtrack once trumpeted the results of a huge ‘customer consultation’ questionnaire process. “You said,” thundered big posters, “that you wanted more of your favourite retailers at our stations. We’ve listened. More are coming soon!”

The posters had to be withdrawn. Actually, people had said that they’d quite like the trains to run on time, thank you very much, and had not at all requested another Tie Rack, ‘Jardin du Paris’ or – God help us – Whistlestop.

I don’t know how long the café at King’s Lynn will be there. Sooner or later somebody will realise that three branches of Burger King will bring in more rent.

But it’s brightened up what has been a fairly tedious week. So I commend it to you for the weekend.

Er… talk amongst yourselves for a bit?

Ta.

I leave the bookies, pleased with my selection.

FRENCHMAN’S CREEK 50/1
Owner: Mr G Factory
Trainer: Mr P Chum

But there is one more thing I need to do while we are in town. I have to buy some sporting equipment!!!

“Are you sure Nike don’t make bowls shoes?” I ask Big A, as we head for the shop. I have retained Big A as my sports equipment purchasing consultant, as he is already a member of the club. I am at a delicate stage in my membership application and I would not want people to laugh at me because I have unfashionable shoes.

The assistant brings out four boxes of different bowls shoes. Short Tony and I examine them critically.

“These ones,” says the helpful lady, “are exactly the same as those ones, but have velcro rather than laces.”

We don’t try those on.

In the end, both Short Tony and I purchase the most expensive pair. When you are playing sport, it is important to have the best equipment, so that you perform to your optimum. Having good footwear can help you avoid problems such as shin splints, etc. We leave the shop, pleased with our selection.

All in all it has been a very sporty day. We retire to the Village Pub to prepare ourselves for the big race.

The rabbits who were once my friends, who entertainingly frolicked on the garden. The rabbits who betrayed me by eating my herbaceous border.

Ignorance of the law is no excuse – but they are not ignorant. Once they were relaxed about being seen in the garden – now they skulk guiltily, scuttling off at the slightest noise or movement.

Which is why, for the past few days, I have been working at the PC with a loaded rifle by my side.

There are two main vantage points from which I can be Rabbit Michael Ryan. The French windows look out over the back garden – I keep one slightly ajar so I can cover that area of ground.

The window in the toilet covers the border.

I don’t know if you have ever done any rabbit stalking, but it involves being very still and quiet, and staying in the same place for a length of time. I have a lot of reading to do for work, so this doesn’t matter.

I also don’t know whether you use your toilet for extensive sitting on, but if you’re anything like me it feels a) uncomfortable with the lid down as there is not a shapely fit with your buttocks, and b) uncomfortable with the lid up when you are fully clothed – just somehow wrong. I keep feeling that I will have an accident in my trousers if I sit like that.

I wait in silence on the toilet, the gun poked through the gap in the window, my pants round my ankles.

They had been scrabbling around earlier in some loose cuttings, but here I am covering the juicy new garden-centre-sourced plants that they appear to love so much. My documents conveniently balance on my lap and I work while I wait.

It is around fifteen minutes before something happens.

There is a knock at the door.

It is Mrs Short Tony!!! I have no wish to make the local newspapers, so I adjust my attire before answering the door. We discuss neighbourly things, quite normally.

She has scared the rabbits off; they live to fight another day.

I stalk the rabbits.

The rabbits who were once my friends, who entertainingly frolicked on the garden. The rabbits who betrayed me by eating my herbaceous border.

Ignorance of the law is no excuse – but they are not ignorant. Once they were relaxed about being seen in the garden – now they skulk guiltily, scuttling off at the slightest noise or movement.

Which is why, for the past few days, I have been working at the PC with a loaded rifle by my side.

There are two main vantage points from which I can be Rabbit Michael Ryan. The French windows look out over the back garden – I keep one slightly ajar so I can cover that area of ground.

The window in the toilet covers the border.

I don’t know if you have ever done any rabbit stalking, but it involves being very still and quiet, and staying in the same place for a length of time. I have a lot of reading to do for work, so this doesn’t matter.

I also don’t know whether you use your toilet for extensive sitting on, but if you’re anything like me it feels a) uncomfortable with the lid down as there is not a shapely fit with your buttocks, and b) uncomfortable with the lid up when you are fully clothed – just somehow wrong. I keep feeling that I will have an accident in my trousers if I sit like that.

I wait in silence on the toilet, the gun poked through the gap in the window, my pants round my ankles.

They had been scrabbling around earlier in some loose cuttings, but here I am covering the juicy new garden-centre-sourced plants that they appear to love so much. My documents conveniently balance on my lap and I work while I wait.

It is around fifteen minutes before something happens.

There is a knock at the door.

It is Mrs Short Tony!!! I have no wish to make the local newspapers, so I adjust my attire before answering the door. We discuss neighbourly things, quite normally.

She has scared the rabbits off; they live to fight another day.

“You look a bit down,” said the LTLP with concern.

Her women’s intuition was right, as usual. Because I am a creative and arty type of person, my moods can swing from cheerful amiability to black depression and back again at the drop of a hat.

And I was very, very down.

“Do you want a game of Scrabble?” she asked.

I cheered up immediately. I like playing Scrabble. Although I am not an overly competitive sort of person, I tend to win a lot, and enjoy watching my opponents face as I put down long high-scoring words until their shoulders hunch in defeat and they start crying. That is what a good education does for you. (I did not go to university, but I got ‘O’ Levels and they were more difficult than what they do these days.)

We set up the board and picked up our letters. Me to go first. I put down a brilliant word (I can’t remember exactly what it was, but it was really good).

Her go.

She studied her letters hard. Shuffled them around. Studied them hard again. Sucked her finger. Moved the letters again.

I sat patiently, waiting for her move.

More shuffling and sucking of fingers. She studied the board really hard, then studied the letters, then the board again. Then there was a bit more shuffling.

By this point I was very bored. I did not want to start reading the paper as it would be rude, so I just yawned a bit and looked at my watch.

About six minutes later, she leapt into action.

“Could you pass the dictionary, please?”

I passed the dictionary. She leafed through it. Shuffled some letters. Studied the board. Looked at the dictionary again.

As far as I could tell, she was reading through all the words beginning with N, M, N and O. I could feel my beard growing.

She studied the board. And shuffled some letters.

“There,” she announced, placing her letters. “M-A-N”. Five points.

I placed my word immediately. It was really good again, although I had to check that the English language hadn’t developed overly since I’d thought of it. I picked up some more letters.

She studied the board.

And shuffled her letters a bit.

I drummed my fingers on the arm of the settee. I could see about seventeen words I could use, if my go ever materialised again.

She picked up the dictionary.

I glanced out of the window. By this point the village was full of futuristic buildings and the world was being ruled by giant ants.

“There you go,” she said, when we finally finished the game.

“Did that cheer you up a bit?”