Ticket to ride

I have a railcard. It cost £26 and promises the earth, or at least a certain amount of Britain, at my disposal for far reduced ticket prices. I have used it once already. I did actually try to use it twice, but the first time it wasn’t allowed. I had agreed to meet E in a local town in order to celebrate our wedding anniversary by going to a concert. He was coming straight from work; I was catching a bus and train from home once the babysitter was there. (It’s not that Ted isn’t old enough to babysit, it’s not even that he wouldn’t be any good in a crisis, it’s simply that he might not notice the crisis as it approached).

At the station I proudly waved my railcard and asked for an adult return. “How many children?” I don’t think he was asking how large my family was, but how many I had brought with me. “None,” I smiled contentedly. “You can’t use this railcard then.” “But…” “No, it’s a family and friends one; you have to take a child with you.” I didn’t want to take a child with me. It was my wedding anniversary.

The next time I used the card I had the full complement of children and husband with me. Last Saturday we went to the Cotswolds for the day for a family party for my brother’s birthday. I had planned the route. There were four trains and a taxi involved but it would be cheap, environmentally less damaging than a car, and efficient enough to get us to the restaurant on time. A friend, Bob, gave us a lift to the station. We bought our tickets. Lexy in particular was touchingly excited about the trip. The day was bright and sunny. There was a guard there to tell us which of the two trains in the station we should catch.

A word of advice. Do not believe that guards have an infallible knowledge of the best route to your destination

Five minutes later we alighted from the train at the next station to await our connection. Only it was the wrong connection. True, you could get to our destination this way, but ONLY BY ADDING AN HOUR TO THE JOURNEY. Sorry, I felt the need to shout that.

The taxi was booked at the other end. The restaurant was booked. Five other people would be waiting for us.

As is common in these situations we had a little row, made some calls, stomped our feet, and settled down to wait. Then I spotted the car hire place next door. It was open Saturday and Sunday. We could hire a car for a day and whiz down the motorway. Except, they would be shut from noon Saturday to early Tuesday because it was Easter and we would therefore have to hire a car for three days. Except they were all out of big cars. “I could treat you to a Mercedes,” said one of the staff. My eyes lit up. A Mercedes! I’ve never driven one of those! “That’ll be £332 please.” I still haven’t driven a Mercedes.

And so we waited for the train. And then we caught it to Reading where we waited again. And then we caught another one. There were no spare seats. We stood. The children loved the open window and couldn’t understand why we didn’t want them playing with it. We tried to reach the taxi company as the taxi was shortly due at our final destination. We couldn’t. Thankfully, my sister-in-law, sitting in a car in a traffic jam somewhere in the Cotswolds, was able to. We changed trains again. We stood again. The children played up again. The taxi charged us £10 more than we had expected.

Why? Why? Why had we made the decision to live without a car? What a stupid thing to do. Later, on the way home, lightening had struck a signal box and all the trains were out on one of our many lines. We had an hour's delay. We arrived at our local station just after the bus had left from the next door bus station. The train was not late - that is simply the way the timetables have been planned. We took another taxi.

In terms of finance, a car would have been cheaper at the weekend. In terms of speed, convenience and general contentment it would have been better. On the other hand, what harm was done? We were tired and hungry, but not so that we could not cope. We inconvenienced everyone but really an hour isn’t that long. The restaurateurs were fantastic and stayed open for an extra hour for us. This fact, combined with excellent food and service, means that we would recommend The Falcon at Poulton, Glos, to anyone (www.falconinnpoulton.co.uk), so that extra hour’s work may not have been such a bad thing. And the children had yet another lesson in discovering that sometimes things are not very convenient but you have to manage anyway. I doubt they appreciated that though.

Also, aren’t we just so smugly ecofriendly?

Lech be a lady tonight

Not having a car is leading to all sorts of new experiences, the last of which seems to have done something to my hip. Saturday was my friend T’s birthday and she had invited me out to go out with a couple of friends, one of whom would drive us to a local town. The driver, however, could not get a babysitter, an occupational hazard of being the parent of young children. Normally I, being one of the few other drivers in the group, would have offered to get out the tank and we would have chugged our way a few tried and tested miles down the road. Not last night - another friend, M, came forward and suggested a trip further afield to the club where her brother was a DJ. Her husband decided that he couldn’t let us out on our own and said he would drive.

We ended up in the heart of Reading’s Polish community. M and her twin brother moved from Poland to England a few years ago and her brother has a regular Saturday night slot at Gospoda, a Polish pub/club where he plays dance music (and I don't mean a genteel foxtrot) into the early hours of the morning. We arrived at a time (9.30ish) when few punters had plucked up the courage (or downed enough Lech larger) to strut their stuff on the wooden dance floor, but that did not stop T. She was clearly born to party and in a pair of heels that should have made her hobble, wobble and topple over but didn’t, she made the floor her own. Her much younger niece had warned me that I would be hard pressed to keep up with her. She was right. And I was wearing comfy biker boots.

In brief breaks from dancing, we sat outside among people who spoke little English, but a good deal more than our Polish. It was a strange and rather wonderful experience. In the way that Marlon Brando and Jean Simmons apparently flew from New York to Havana for dinner (as Sky Masterson and Sergeant Sarah Brown in Guys and Dolls) we seemed to have done the impossible and driven to Warsaw for the evening. And this is something that I would not have done had I not given up the car.

There was a good, friendly crowd and I didn’t feel what I had feared  - out of place and at least 30 years older than almost everyone else.  I  stomped my comfy boots with the best of them - though grungy comfort clearly wasn’t the fashion  and T’s heels were no exception there.  The only problem was that by around 1am I had shaken off all pretence of youth and was thinking of sitting down with a nice cup of tea before getting into bed. We didn’t leave until 2.30am. On the other hand, I don’t think T would have wanted to leave any earlier and it was her birthday.(PS she's older than I am).

That is, of course, the drawback of being given a lift:  you are not free to leave when you wish. Having your own car gives you an independence that is not to be sniffed at. Being dependent on others can mean an unequal relationship, or at least a perceived one on one side. Being dependent on public transport can leave you stranded. T recalled a night out in Reading once before when she and her friend had to wait until the 6am train before they could go home. “It was summer so it could have been worse,” she said philosophically, “but it was still a bit cold.”

The other option is to take taxis but only if you have money to throw around.  We are going on a visit to my parents soon and, armed with our soon-to-be-purchased rail card, will be taking the train. Unfortunately, despite my assiduous studying of complicated bus timetables, there are no buses to take us from the only train station for miles around (thanks Dr Beeching), and the only way to get all five of us from the station to the restaurant where we all plan to meet is to take a taxi. It will cost us about £2 a mile. Hmm.

Still, my international jet setting this week has taught me something that I shall be able to use once we are at the restaurant where we shall celebrate my brother’s birthday. I shall be able to raise a glass and say “Na zdrowie!” Cheers!

Note to self: ask M how to pronounce word. Further note to self: See doctor about dodgy hip damaged while dancing.

Big black taxi come and took away that young man

There are a few things which those of us used to driving (or being driven in the case of my children) must learn. One is to read bus timetables and to accept that buses will turn up early when you are late and late when you are on time. Another is to work out the exact spot to stand if you need to take a taxi. Oh, and never be afraid of the dark, or you won’t do anything.

So yesterday Teenage Ted and I took the bus then the train to the theatre and the train then a taxi back. Today Ted and I had the challenge of an early morning appointment with the doctor and the need to get him to and from his drama class and me to and from a meeting. In theory it was all simple. In practice I realise that my children have been brought up to believe that time is infinitely flexible and if you are still watching TV/finding socks/eating breakfast when it is time to leave then this will have no impact on the journey ahead of you. Of course, I cannot imagine where they have got this idea from since I am entirely blameless in all this…

So yesterday I called Ted and I called him and still he did not appear. Eventually he arrived and we set out. I was thankful that I had written a few extra minutes into our schedule. The bus had not. It arrived early. We ran and I was again thankful, this time that there were sufficient passengers getting off to hold up the bus long enough for a lanky teenager and a wheezing middle-aged woman to clamber on.

I am not a teacher but I assume it takes teenagers a while to learn boring facts and bus timetables are not that interesting (well, they may be to some people but it takes all sorts). So it was this morning that we hurried to catch a bus to get to the doctor and this time missed it - I think a lack of easy-find socks was to blame. But that was all to the good as a friend saw us, picked us up, drove us into the town and then took Ted to school. Sometimes ignoring timetables can work in your favour.

But the taxi was a different matter. Now, as a young stripling with the ability to claim back company expenses, I was forever hailing Black Cabs in London and saying things like “The Ritz please, my good man, and make it snappy”. Perhaps taking such a tone led to my being blacklisted by all cab drivers. What other explanation can there have been for the curious incident of the cab in the night time? Last night, the lanky teenager and the wheezing midde-aged woman alighted from the train and decided to take a taxi home after an excellent evening seeing To Kill a Mockingbird at a theatre in a nearby town. We had ascertained that there were no buses that linked with trains after the middle of the evening since all people taking the evening trains must also either have cars, or live near the station, or be wealthy enough to take taxis. We fall into none of these categories. The theatre trip had been a work outing for me (I review  for a local newspaper - another challenge in my current carless state) and now Ted and I needed to return home.

We had to splash out on the taxi and stood second-in-line at the taxi rank. A cab turned up with its yellow light indicating it was for hire and the man in front jumped in. Don’t worry, another one will be here soon I assured Ted. Sure enough, a cab approached, also with its yellow ‘for hire’ sign shining encouragingly. We stepped forward. The cab shot several yards beyond us and the young man behind us scuttled past and leapt in, glancing furtively over his shoulder at us. It was another 10 or 15 minutes before the next taxi arrived. And then it cost us £10 to drive for six minutes.

Still, this evening was also bizarre. Ted and I missed a bus to get him to drama (lack of shirt this time) and then I walked home, walked to a meeting and walked home again only to find that the babysitter who had looked after Coco earlier was still there and scared of walking home in the dark. Leaving Ted in charge (thank you H for getting him home from drama) I walked her back again. Don’t be afraid of the dark - it will get you nowhere.