3 July 2007
My London terminal is Paddington. Just about every daylight hour of every working day there are two trains from Bristol Parkway to the old iron marvel, one of Isembard Kingdom Brunel’s wonders. There are trains from Bristol Temple Meads, the older station near the centre of the city but I don’t think they are as often and some of those go to other London stations, I think.
This has given birth to several thoughts; one is how strange it is that we know so little about things outside the narrow channels in which we live the bulk of our lives. On the tube you see countless hardened Londoners who have some internal GPS and just know when they’ve reached their station; at their destination they just meander off, zombie-like, without reference to the line map above the doors or the station name in tiles on the rounded walls of the tunnel, oblivious to everyone and everything, usually tethered to some i-pod-like device secreted about their person, the only visible evidence of which is the white wire and white earpieces that aliens must think are a part of us. Oh yes, there is one other piece of visible evidence: a sort of blanked off look. The i-pod’ers are one of the most asleep generations we’ve had. It used to be that you had to drink or take drugs to get that alienated from your environment, you actually had to work at it a bit. Now you just press a button on that little white plastic box with all that engineering magic inside.
At my terminal, though – which is where I was before I did what I so often do and digress – what interests me is the way that we all stand and stare slightly upwards at the display boards, willing our train to move over to the left, ever closer to the witching hour when they will depart. Sometimes your train actually slides over to the far left display, panel by panel, and it reaches the end and there is still no platform number next to the name of the final destination so you don’t know where to go to board it. You just stand there and stare, powerless, a mere passenger, pawn of the railways, watching as the actual time passes the time of departure and your train, whichever one of the dozen or so that is currently drawn up into the station, nose first, just sits there (if, that is, it has even managed to arrive from wherever it came).
At least during the evening rush there is a bit of sport; we are also preparing for the made dash down the platform when our train has been identified (and this is the other thought that I mentioned had come to me about two paragraphs up). Until they announce the platform number, you just mill around, covertly appraising the competition, handicapping those who are lugging the heaviest bags, are old or infirm. High heels are deceiving, I’ve seen a woman in a tight skirt and three or four-inch heels scoot down the platform, as fast as a young banker on the make sporting testosteronal Nikes. Of course, this is really only true of the sans culottes, the lumpen proletariat who ride standard class; first class is still not over-sold most of the time and the railway companies conspire to keep it so by raising prices as fast as a Venezuelan brothel keeper (whose pricing policies, I add for the benefit of my wife who might one day read this, I’ve only read about).
So what happens is that your train moves across the electronic displays, closer and closer to that magic place over there on the far left where there is nothing between it and that moment of scheduling magic when your mode of transportation is finally given a platform number. That’s when the mad scramble begins, you walk/jog down the platform and wedge yourself on board and seize the first empty seat you can.
As the late comers make their way down the centre of the car you can feel quietly superior, sitting in your slightly plush, too-narrow seat, knees against the chair in front or, if you’re lucky enough to get a table, against those of the person facing you (frequently someone with peculiar personal hygiene).
It’s all great fun, really so if you only do it once in a while and are still sufficiently conscious of your surroundings to notice them. Or, you can buy an i-pod.
1 comment:
Hardened commuters and some (case) hardened irregular travellers have learned a few tricks to slightly improve the chances of getting a seat. I can reveal only two since the advantage will evaporate if I reveal all to too many weary travellers. [I'm assuming that by contributing to this narrowcast form of communication my tips will not become common knowledge].
Whilst it's very tempting, even tantalising, to watch the displays skipping left until they skip off the conveyor completely into an ethereal "Job Done" box this isn't the way to avoid the platform scramble when the number is allocated. Of course, "Job Done" in this context is a synthetic construct which really only says "off my patch" - the train could stop 150 yards out of the station and the screens wouldn't skip to the right even though that's how it feels. The "(My) Job Done" syndrome is one of the ways we convince ourselves that progress is made - it's as if putting more people (with shorter arms) into a bucket chain makes more progress than fewer (with longer arms) - but I digress.
If you look at the arrivals board (rather than the departure board)you can usually figure out which incoming train will become your outgoing train. This is very useful because whilst 'they' know the departure platform they don't announce it immediately because they need to de-train (not a dumbing down process) the incoming passengers and then let the cleaners dash through with black plastic sacks and the reserved seat allocators stick their flimsy cards into the headrests. Whilst the departure displays are gayly skipping left the seasoned traveller is making his/her way to the overbridge half way down the platform. When the firm allocation is finally made the wise traveller is already 100 yds ahead of the pack. This process can go wrong - you might just jump on the wrong train - but my hit rate has been 100% - I did once catch the wrong train and had to swap but I still managed to get a seat on the 2nd train I boarded!
Device two is less about stealing a march and more about riding the averages. If you can't find a seat without a reservation - don't worry - just sit down anyway especially if the reservation is from Reading. Many, maybe even most, reservations are not honoured by the traveller (the many possible reasons could take up column inches) and you will not lose anything by sitting down. The only price you might have to pay is having to smile a friendly smile and politely apologising for taking someone else's seat - when you give the seat up you are no worse off and the reservee's relief is palpable.
and, lets face it, a single smile can change the course of the world - hopefully for the better.
Of course, the selfless alternative is to help the aged, the luggaged, the obese etc etc along the platform and into the seat that had your name on it.
The cynical alternative is to invest in a Venezuluan bordello and use the profits to fund a 1st class ticket.
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