The day I left these sunny shores to go on holiday in Tuscany was a rather eventful one. I had planned everything with Swiss precision so that that I would arrive at Gatwick airport with some time to spare and relax.
To say that something that I had eaten earlier that day disagreed with me is a bit of an understatement. To paint a more accurate picture, that something not only disagreed with me but also dragged me in a toe-to-toe, beat the sh1t out of me and sued me for millions.
All was going well as I was about to leave my house, station-bound. However something in the tummy department just wasn't right so I nipped to my private study for a quick session. It didn't turn out to be that quick as 10 minutes later I was still there, which meant that I had to leg it to the station, carrying a rather heavy bag as well as my laptop bag.
Unsurprisingly all the slowest people in Kingston must have decided to unite and boycott my valiant effort as I had to dodge zillions of snail-pacers trying to get to the station. Now I have some good & bad news for you.... the good news is that I made it to the station. The bad news is that I missed my train by a matter of seconds as I saw it leave the station when I got to the platform. The very bad news is that the next train had just been cancelled. The truly horrific news is that I suddenly felt that 'the enemy within' was still alive and kicking (quite literally, I suspect) in my tummy. The train cancellation meant that I had no time for a pit stop at Wimbledon on my way to Clapham Junction. Not a happy bunny.
However I started feeling considerably better after a few minutes and (when I finally got on my train) I was 100% convinced that I wouldn't need to answer any calls of nature before Gatwick. In terms of wrong predictions, this probably ranks up there with Alan Hansen's famous "You don't win anything with kids".
At Clapham Junction I patiently waited for my Gatwick train. All was fine. My tummy wasn't troubling me at all. I was cool as a cucumber in my A&F t-shirt and shorts. The world was smiling at me. Virtually invincible!
Once I got on the Brighton train I was indeed invincible.... for about 2 minutes. After 3 minutes I started sweating profusely, despite the air conditioning. After 5, I was on my knees (almost literally). My carriage was quite packed with Gatwick-bound tourists as well as a rather loud hen party.
As we stopped at East Croydon I knew only too well that I would never make it to Gatwick in that state. I'm sure you know the feeling.... you start shivering even in the sweltering heat, you look around in a state of panic not knowing how long you can keep it in. I'm positive that I would have felt cold even if I had worn a bl00dy parka rather than my favourite A&F t-shirt. I had only 2 options left, plain and simple. Either I had to get off the train pronto or 'the enemy within' had to leave my body..... pronto, but not until I had found a suitable venue. When you can't locate a toilet in either direction, and you feel like you're turning every colour of the rainbow, you actually start believing that a couple of semi-hidden empty seats at the end of your carriage (and a shopping bag as sacrificial lamb) are a perfectly suitable venue. When you turn a darker shade of indigo.... you don't even care about the toilet roll - you would just happily pay one grand to find those two empty seats, trust me.
Just when I was contemplating how humiliating on a scale from 1 to 10 it would be to lose control of my giblets in front of a hen party (8.5 is the general consensus, upgradable to 10 if you're wearing shorts), divine intervention came in the form of a sliding door that I saw at the far end of the carriage. Was I hallucinating? Is it a mirage? No it was a perfectly working toilet door. God moves in mysterious ways indeed.
I made my way down there, merrily bashing everyone in sight with my two bags, but now I had to overcome one last problem, and it seemed as big a problem as the internal explosion that was going to take place inside me within nanoseconds. 3 or 4 hens had formed an orderly queue on the train aisle as clearly they could not contemplate getting to Brighton without their make-up impeccably applied. Desperate times require desperate measures so, totally disregarding the good habits learnt over so many years in the UK, as soon as the door opened I bolted forward, skipped the queue and secured my place in heaven, muttering a self-explanatory "I need to go" before any of those tarts could open their gob.
After dispersing approx. 10% of my bodily weight over 5 miles of Surrey railtrack as well as Purley station, God took his revenge on me for skipping the queue by depriving me of any toilet roll. No doubt egged on by a baying mob of hens, the Almighty left me without anything remotely soft that I could use in that cubicle. I would never consider using my fingers in those situations but when you have no options left, you start wondering if the left hand would be better than the right one, which fingers are most suited for the job etc.... Just as my nightmare was about to become reality, I realised that I must have had some wet wipes in one of my bags. EUREKA!!! Punching the air with joy, I found a packet of old, now dry wipes, which must have been wet when Blair was still popular.
Deed done, I came out of the cubicle grinning like a Cheshire cat, ready to face the hen party music.... however hardly any passengers were there, the hen party must have got off and certainly no-one gave me any grief for skipping the queue - result!! As I left the train at Gatwick, I knew only too well that the recent bodily exertions had taken a rather heavy toll as I walked rather funny. Without a care in the world, I had (and still have) only one doubt left in my head: who on earth goes on a hen night in Purley??? Bonkers.
To say that something that I had eaten earlier that day disagreed with me is a bit of an understatement. To paint a more accurate picture, that something not only disagreed with me but also dragged me in a toe-to-toe, beat the sh1t out of me and sued me for millions.
All was going well as I was about to leave my house, station-bound. However something in the tummy department just wasn't right so I nipped to my private study for a quick session. It didn't turn out to be that quick as 10 minutes later I was still there, which meant that I had to leg it to the station, carrying a rather heavy bag as well as my laptop bag.
Unsurprisingly all the slowest people in Kingston must have decided to unite and boycott my valiant effort as I had to dodge zillions of snail-pacers trying to get to the station. Now I have some good & bad news for you.... the good news is that I made it to the station. The bad news is that I missed my train by a matter of seconds as I saw it leave the station when I got to the platform. The very bad news is that the next train had just been cancelled. The truly horrific news is that I suddenly felt that 'the enemy within' was still alive and kicking (quite literally, I suspect) in my tummy. The train cancellation meant that I had no time for a pit stop at Wimbledon on my way to Clapham Junction. Not a happy bunny.
However I started feeling considerably better after a few minutes and (when I finally got on my train) I was 100% convinced that I wouldn't need to answer any calls of nature before Gatwick. In terms of wrong predictions, this probably ranks up there with Alan Hansen's famous "You don't win anything with kids".
At Clapham Junction I patiently waited for my Gatwick train. All was fine. My tummy wasn't troubling me at all. I was cool as a cucumber in my A&F t-shirt and shorts. The world was smiling at me. Virtually invincible!
Once I got on the Brighton train I was indeed invincible.... for about 2 minutes. After 3 minutes I started sweating profusely, despite the air conditioning. After 5, I was on my knees (almost literally). My carriage was quite packed with Gatwick-bound tourists as well as a rather loud hen party.
As we stopped at East Croydon I knew only too well that I would never make it to Gatwick in that state. I'm sure you know the feeling.... you start shivering even in the sweltering heat, you look around in a state of panic not knowing how long you can keep it in. I'm positive that I would have felt cold even if I had worn a bl00dy parka rather than my favourite A&F t-shirt. I had only 2 options left, plain and simple. Either I had to get off the train pronto or 'the enemy within' had to leave my body..... pronto, but not until I had found a suitable venue. When you can't locate a toilet in either direction, and you feel like you're turning every colour of the rainbow, you actually start believing that a couple of semi-hidden empty seats at the end of your carriage (and a shopping bag as sacrificial lamb) are a perfectly suitable venue. When you turn a darker shade of indigo.... you don't even care about the toilet roll - you would just happily pay one grand to find those two empty seats, trust me.
Just when I was contemplating how humiliating on a scale from 1 to 10 it would be to lose control of my giblets in front of a hen party (8.5 is the general consensus, upgradable to 10 if you're wearing shorts), divine intervention came in the form of a sliding door that I saw at the far end of the carriage. Was I hallucinating? Is it a mirage? No it was a perfectly working toilet door. God moves in mysterious ways indeed.
I made my way down there, merrily bashing everyone in sight with my two bags, but now I had to overcome one last problem, and it seemed as big a problem as the internal explosion that was going to take place inside me within nanoseconds. 3 or 4 hens had formed an orderly queue on the train aisle as clearly they could not contemplate getting to Brighton without their make-up impeccably applied. Desperate times require desperate measures so, totally disregarding the good habits learnt over so many years in the UK, as soon as the door opened I bolted forward, skipped the queue and secured my place in heaven, muttering a self-explanatory "I need to go" before any of those tarts could open their gob.
After dispersing approx. 10% of my bodily weight over 5 miles of Surrey railtrack as well as Purley station, God took his revenge on me for skipping the queue by depriving me of any toilet roll. No doubt egged on by a baying mob of hens, the Almighty left me without anything remotely soft that I could use in that cubicle. I would never consider using my fingers in those situations but when you have no options left, you start wondering if the left hand would be better than the right one, which fingers are most suited for the job etc.... Just as my nightmare was about to become reality, I realised that I must have had some wet wipes in one of my bags. EUREKA!!! Punching the air with joy, I found a packet of old, now dry wipes, which must have been wet when Blair was still popular.
Deed done, I came out of the cubicle grinning like a Cheshire cat, ready to face the hen party music.... however hardly any passengers were there, the hen party must have got off and certainly no-one gave me any grief for skipping the queue - result!! As I left the train at Gatwick, I knew only too well that the recent bodily exertions had taken a rather heavy toll as I walked rather funny. Without a care in the world, I had (and still have) only one doubt left in my head: who on earth goes on a hen night in Purley??? Bonkers.
Posts
No comments:
Post a Comment