Is this anyway to run a railroad?

I have a friend who has taken his family off to the wilds of Worcester, though the actual wilds probably disappeared several centuries ago. Anyhow, this young man was an actor when first we met, and was in my first show in Scotland. He was very good, and each time I saw him in other shows, I was always impressed.

However, the acting turned out not to be the profession for him and he turned to religion. He studied at Oxford, was ordained and now he and his family are at a parish in Worcester. In fact, he had his final ordination this month and I was going over to be there for his first official sermon from his new pulpit.

So, you are asking yourself, how is this a train story? Well, I say, I’ll tell you.

I go down to the local rail station to purchase my ticket to Worcester. That should have been a simple thing; anyone should be able to do it. However, I have a handicap that most people don’t have, I can’t pronounce Worcester. Yes, I know sad, but there you are. In fact, several people has asked where I was off to for the week end, and when I tried to tell them they just looked at me in bewilderment.

In retrospect I guess I was lucky that I didn’t go missing. The police would have interviewed people at Christ Church and each of them would have told them a different place and none of those places would have sounded familiar. It sort reminds me of an old joke. There was this guy who painted this car lots of colors. He had one red fender, a blue hood, a green door and each part was a different color. When asked why he had painted his car that way, he said, “In case I am ever in a hit and run no one will be able to identify the car.”

I know that if I turn up at the train station and ask for a ticket to, whatever I try to pronounce, I could in up anywhere. So, I devise a cunning plan. I write down my destination on a piece of paper. When I come to the counter, I hand the note to the over and ask for a first class ticket.

This very nice lady tells me that I should buy a standard ticket and then go sit in first class. When the conductor comes buy I can purchase an upgrade from him. It was weekend rates and would cost half as much. Sounds good, I thank her, buy the standard ticket, and go to the platform to wait for the train.

The train comes in; I board, sit in first class and wait for the conductor. I glance down at my ticket and my heart stops. The ticket is not for Worcester it’s for Winchester. That is a town in the south of England at least three hours away from my destination and in the opposite direction. The announcement comes on and I can’t understand a word. Well, one word and that word is Manchester. Worcester, Winchester, and Manchester what the hell is going on? The “chesters” are attacking me.

“Okay,” I say to myself, “calm down, the conductor will come along and he’ll straighten this all out.” I mean, how bad can it be? I’m in the middle of England so If I have put myself on the wrong train all I have to do is get off go back to Oxford and start over. It’s not like I’m in the jungles of South Asia where not only do they not speak English, they would love to invite someone like me over to dinner. Yeah, right. But, the conductor doesn’t come by.

The train turns out to be a local and every 10 minutes or so it stops to let people off, but no one gets off and no one gets on. Then I see that each platform is bare of facilities; it’s just for commuters. It looks like if you don’t know what you’re doing you wouldn’t be there in the first place so why put employees on weekend duty? We’re getting farther away from Oxford, and after each stop this unintelligible voice comes over the speaker to make some kind of announcement. I am trapped in the twilight zone.

I try to reason things out. People in panic always try to reason things out, that is how things like hitting icebergs happen. I think, okay the ticket says Winchester, but the train came on the platform and at the exact time the train to Worcester was supposed to use. I had typed the schedule on the Brit Rail web site which is where I got the train time.

Okay, I think, what’s the worst that can happen? They can kill me but they won’t eat me. Then I think of Jeffery Daimler and I am not comforted. Still no conductor, in fact, through out the entire journey I never see a conductor. So, I may be going somewhere I hadn’t planned to go, but I am going first class and haven’t paid for it. If you look there is always a silver lining.

I am keeping my eye on my watch, I know, or think I know, from the Brit Rail web site how long this trip is supposed to last. I figure, as I was able to get a train that came by just when it was supposed to come by, maybe I’m okay.

As we approach the time we should be getting into Worcester the train starts slowing down. It comes to a stop and there is a sign saying Scrub Hill, Worcester. If there were an Olympic event for fat people getting off trains, I would have picked up a metal.

Unfortunately, my adventures are not over. I have to go back to where I started and I have a ticket that comes from a location that is different from the location that I have been. On my return trip I move to first class, knowing that no matter what happens I have a good chance of ending up in Oxford. Which I do without that much difficulty. Though it did take about 10 minutes with the conductor, as he just couldn’t get his head around the entire Worcester, Winchester and Manchester issue. Speaking of Manchester, I never did figure out why I heard that announcement at the start of the trip. But, get back I do.

This next Saturday I go to Glasgow, and I think as long as I’m at the train station I should just pick up my ticket. If you buy them in advance you get a price break. I go into a section where you do trip planning and sit down with a very nice gentleman who starts to work on my travel plans.

He keep hunting and pecking and then he stops mummers under his breath and then starts again. I admire his perseverance for we are now almost 10 minutes into the search. He can get me to Manchester, but is having a hard time finding a way to get me from Manchester to Glasgow.

One of the “chesters” again, but I say nothing. Then he pushes back and says, “Oh I forgot, there may be a train strike this Friday so the computer won’t let me book your ticket.” He suggests that I keep my eyes on the paper and come back if the switchmen decide not to have a weekend work stoppage.

I say thank you, get up go back to Christ Church go on line and book an airline ticket. I can catch a bus to the airport, and then on to Glasgow by British Airways.