Well and truly grumpy

I have no problem with a heap of snow or an iced-up railway line. In fact, I’m very happy for both those things to cause a little disruption and for us all to be bounced out of our routines for the duration. But I’m just not sure whether, since this little reminder of the mighty elements, it’s my equilibrium that’s been lost or Southern’s.

Last night a broken-down train – not ours – kept us waiting somewhere on the threshold of Lewes. The night before, two drivers failed to show up on time, which meant hearing about their progress across London and along from Brighton while waiting at Victoria and Haywards Heath respectively. And the number of red signals! I don’t think I’ve ever met so many.

And – another sign of disequilibrium – this week half the carriages on the 7.42 are snug and warm while the other half are downright cold. Of course we old-hands are trained to seek out the warm spots, but what about those who simply get on the first carriage they see?

So I’ve decided to call a halt to this practice of clutching at every benefit of every doubt. And yesterday, when I’d been deposited in Lewes at last, the thought of making my way up the hill and to the top end of town (usually just a part of the landscape of the day) presented itself as just one more slight to be borne. I treated myself to a taxi instead. And sitting here now – with the drafts and the cold just one carriage away; on schedule but not knowing whether an errant driver is lying in wait round the very next corner; making progress but living in fear of the next red signal – not even crossing the Balcombe Viaduct is enough to lift my spirits. So now you know: I’m well and truly grumpy.

Where were they when I needed them?

The 7.42 has been a part of my life for a good few years, and so the same must be true of whichever train awaits me at platform 6 of London Bridge to take me from there to my final destination. Those trains come thick and fast, thank god, and there’s not much to tell them apart, so I feel as if I’m familiar with each of them from every angle (inside and out) and that I know their rhythms, their sighs, their rumbles, and their general bearing. And of course I know their colours, too.

So why, this morning, did I walk blindly, deafly and unthinkingly onto a blue train streaked with purple? Why was I one of the only ones among my platform companions to get on? And why did I sit relatively calmly while it wheezed its way along the tracks, pausing for breath every few moments? And why did I not notice that the buildings outside the window were just slightly unfamiliar?

It was our arrival at a station called, I think, City Thameslink that brought me, quite literally, to my senses and brought home to me the divergent path my life had taken. Put quite simply, I was in one place, and my life was in another. So I experienced the full force of a wake-up-call and a shock to the system, both of which were particularly unforgiving in the circumstances – this was one of the few days in the year when my presence was very much required earlier rather than later, and being absent wasn't an option.

Happily, I did make it to my destination on time (where something like 100 students – of the non riotous kind – were waiting for me), so I’ve regained both my composure and my life. But now I'm keeping a close eye on the trains and ­– even more so – on my senses. Where were they when I needed them?

I'm working on it

I’ve been away for a week, and it was a good week in almost every respect – but, gosh, it’s good to be back and treading the well-worn path of my daily life. Of course just over a week ago that’s exactly what I was desperate to escape, the well-worn path having become like a muddy rut and the various obligations of my day standing in the way like little stumbling blocks.

But perhaps this holiday was a little ambitious with nine nights spread over six different beds. There was the brief respite of one bed for four nights in Devon, courtesy of the in-laws, but the rest was all geographical non sequiturs and out-of-the-way stopovers (Cambridge for one reason, Suffolk for another).

So it was an unlikely holiday and itinerary in one sense, though it did take us to see the people we wanted to see. But now that I’m back, normal life seems like a particularly pleasurable and easy thing to lead, and even the to-ing and fro-ing to London seems like a gentle stroll. Better still, those ruts have turned back to well-honed pathways and those little stumbling blocks, seen in this new and better light, are nothing more than the warp and weave of normality. In short, I’m wallowing in predictability, familiarity and the finely tuned infrastructure of my very own life.

So the holiday has done its job and spewed me back into Lewes recharged, refreshed and content. The problem is, it’s less than four weeks to the next holiday, and I’m not sure I’ll be ready in time. But I’m working on it.