Great British Travel

Tomorrow, I'm venturing to the bright city lights of London. After (almost) twenty years of being a Lincolnshire lass, I am hopping on the 9.15am NXEC to Kings Cross, in aid of my very first Theatre Royal experience. Yes, I am going to see Oliver! with my Mum, who is very nervous after (almost) fifty years of limited train-travel experience. I find this astounding; she has managed her entire life with no more than long-distant memories of train journeys to Cleethorpes as a toddler. I spend more than enough of my life waiting on various platforms, with too much luggage, inappropriate attire and no sustenance. This is because I am poor. Whereas I could stretch to a car which wasn't Flintstones-esque (by which I mean has a floor, and is not powered by running feet), I cannot afford the luxuries of insurance, tax, mot...all of which I'm told are 'vital'. Saying that, despite my Railcard (complete with horrendous photograph), train fares are now becoming r.i.d.i.c.u.l.o.u.s. Ok, so we only booked theatre tickets 36 hours in advance. And yes, admittedly it took us a fair while to agree on travel times. But really, £71 per adult, and £47 for me, is pretty painful. All for a sweat-ridden journey where the trolley lady bludgeons my ankles, I worry that terrorists will blow up the toilet, and I attract all the drunken conversationalists who think I am their daughter/wife/long-lost cousin.

However, all that aside, I confess that I LOVE trains. Not in the trainspotting sense, hanging around platforms in an outfit entirely based on tweed. I love them because I feel so cosmopolitan on them. I have my little powder-blue vintage suitcase, a scarf over the shoulder, and I would wear travelling gloves if I wasn't worried about being ridiculed. Even though everybody is in a state of disrepair on the train, either sweating from the humidity, or slate grey from the movement, there really is an element of competition. Last time I ventured homewards, I was gently jostled by a girl wearing something which I am positive was made exclusively of fish-bones. From across the aisle, a woman glared at me over the top of her over-sized sunglasses (it was cloudy outside). I perspired copiously in my thick tights, but for the sake of fashion (darling), I put up a damn good fight.

So, instead of arranging Tube connections and bus transfers, I will spend a vast portion of this evening putting together my travelling attire. I will choose my ballerina pumps over my trainers, my tights over my jeans, and select my largest handbag where all my tickets and reference numbers can mingle with receipts and chewing gum wrappers. At the station, I will lose my phone, my water bottle will leak and I will undoubtedly leave something on the platform. I will get mugged, get lost, get drunk and disorderly on the return journey. I will fall asleep and end up in Edinburgh. And if none of these happen, and I get home safely at the expected time, with all my vital organs in tact, I will consider my day-trip to London an entire success!