Death by Swindon
Well. It would take an incident of almost monumental irritation for me to bring this blog out of the state of semi-permanent retirement circumstances have forced me to put it into - but falling asleep on the train and waking up in the middle of night in Swindon will do it just fine.
Life has just been ridiculously busy of late, and it's far easier to sit comatose in front of Holby City than it is to string three words together in the faint hope of being amusing. But as I wrenched the ipod from my ears and hastily brushed the sleep out of my eyes, I caught the sign of Didcot Parkway disappearing into the distance through the carriage window - and the familiar late-night feelings of rage and boiling frustration that fuel this blog came flooding back. There was only one way forward into the inky black night - and that was to Swindon.
The next half an hour was spent furiously phoning Swindon's glamorious Travel Taverns and Premier Inns in the hope of finding a room. I might as well have been asking for an elephant's ear on a bun. I think word must have quickly spread among the budget hoteliers of Wiltshire that some half-crazed man was trying to get a room at ten past midnight on a Tuesday, and they quickly all shut up shop. As the train pulled into the station a woman timidly approached me - "There is a Holiday Inn Express just there," she kindly offered, pointing out into the night. "Right! Right!" I muttered, "I mean, no rooms, it's incredible. This is the 21st century!" She smiled sympathetically, but clearly had her mobile primed to call the police in case I tried to eat her.
Anyway, the Swindon Holiday Inn Express was more difficult to get into than Fort Knox. I negotiated lifts, corridors, bells, and pass keys, all clearly put in my path as some Kafka-esque joke. When I eventually found the reception three hours later, the concierge was both helpful and charming - "No. No rooms for you."
"You mean you don't have one room free in this whole skyscraper?"
"No. You can have another drink?"
"What? What do you mean? No, I want a room!"
"I cannot do it sir."
I angrily went to the toilet to weigh up my options. The concierge made a great show of phoning other hotels - "WHAT? NO ROOMS? OH DEAR. THE GENTLEMEN MISSED HIS STOP. NO ROOMS? NEITHER WITH YOU OR ANYONE ELSE IN THE ENTIRETY OF SWINDON? IN THE WHOLE COUNTY? OH OK" - but I knew Swindon had already pulled up its drawbridge. At the late hour of 12.30am.
I made one valiant effort to persuade British Rail to put on a special train back to Reading for me - "Oooh no soirrr, next train b'aint be till foive in the morrrning" - But it was no good. As I pressed the £80 into the taxi driver's hand to drive me back up the M4 I could have cried.
This is hubris. I have spent the last few weekends, for professional reasons I can't really detail here, with a selection of cheerleaders from the United States of America. I have chaperoned and admired these young, pert, smiling dancing ladies and amused them with my floppy fringe and British self-depreciation. Naturally, an amount of signed swimsuit calendars and gales of tinkly American laughter can turn a man's (large square) head. Thus, as my patient and excellent wife has reminded me, Swindon serves me right.
Until this blog rises again.
Life has just been ridiculously busy of late, and it's far easier to sit comatose in front of Holby City than it is to string three words together in the faint hope of being amusing. But as I wrenched the ipod from my ears and hastily brushed the sleep out of my eyes, I caught the sign of Didcot Parkway disappearing into the distance through the carriage window - and the familiar late-night feelings of rage and boiling frustration that fuel this blog came flooding back. There was only one way forward into the inky black night - and that was to Swindon.
The next half an hour was spent furiously phoning Swindon's glamorious Travel Taverns and Premier Inns in the hope of finding a room. I might as well have been asking for an elephant's ear on a bun. I think word must have quickly spread among the budget hoteliers of Wiltshire that some half-crazed man was trying to get a room at ten past midnight on a Tuesday, and they quickly all shut up shop. As the train pulled into the station a woman timidly approached me - "There is a Holiday Inn Express just there," she kindly offered, pointing out into the night. "Right! Right!" I muttered, "I mean, no rooms, it's incredible. This is the 21st century!" She smiled sympathetically, but clearly had her mobile primed to call the police in case I tried to eat her.
Anyway, the Swindon Holiday Inn Express was more difficult to get into than Fort Knox. I negotiated lifts, corridors, bells, and pass keys, all clearly put in my path as some Kafka-esque joke. When I eventually found the reception three hours later, the concierge was both helpful and charming - "No. No rooms for you."
"You mean you don't have one room free in this whole skyscraper?"
"No. You can have another drink?"
"What? What do you mean? No, I want a room!"
"I cannot do it sir."
I angrily went to the toilet to weigh up my options. The concierge made a great show of phoning other hotels - "WHAT? NO ROOMS? OH DEAR. THE GENTLEMEN MISSED HIS STOP. NO ROOMS? NEITHER WITH YOU OR ANYONE ELSE IN THE ENTIRETY OF SWINDON? IN THE WHOLE COUNTY? OH OK" - but I knew Swindon had already pulled up its drawbridge. At the late hour of 12.30am.
I made one valiant effort to persuade British Rail to put on a special train back to Reading for me - "Oooh no soirrr, next train b'aint be till foive in the morrrning" - But it was no good. As I pressed the £80 into the taxi driver's hand to drive me back up the M4 I could have cried.
This is hubris. I have spent the last few weekends, for professional reasons I can't really detail here, with a selection of cheerleaders from the United States of America. I have chaperoned and admired these young, pert, smiling dancing ladies and amused them with my floppy fringe and British self-depreciation. Naturally, an amount of signed swimsuit calendars and gales of tinkly American laughter can turn a man's (large square) head. Thus, as my patient and excellent wife has reminded me, Swindon serves me right.
Until this blog rises again.
posted by Nick at 8:13 AM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home