Minutes from FCC's February board meeting:
Managing Director: Right, now that the snow's over we really need to get back onside with our customers. Any ideas?
Operations Director: What about some new trains to improve reliability and customer comfort.
Managing Director: Bloody ridiculous. That'll cost far too much. We've already bought them three new trains, and we turned those into six by chopping them in half. What more do you think they want?
Operations Director: Ok, how about we just get the old trains in, clean them up a bit, paint all the poles inside the carriage with some of that shocking pink we've got left over and tell them we've made them more reliable. That ought to keep them happy.
Managing Director: Brilliant.
Customer Services Director: What about offering them a few free tickets?
Managing Director: Are you having a laugh. You caused enough trouble last time when you offered them 5 free days travel. And when that wasn't good enough for the miserable gits those government johnnies made us pretend to offer them more. I spent a whole journey to work in my chauffeur driven limo working out that a 5% discount off a season ticket cost about the same as 5 free days travel. If you think I'm going through that again you must be off your head.
HR Director: Well, it's nearly Spring, the sun will be out, the trees will be green. If we plant a few daffodils near the stations and put some fluffy lambs in the fields next to the tracks then they'll soon all be smili .....
Managing Director: Why don't you just shut up and get out.
HR Director: What?
Managing Director: You heard me.
HR Director: I ... I ... I'm telling on you. I'm going to phone the anti-bullying helpline.
Managing Director: The anti-bullying helpline. You'd be better off emailing our customer services team, now GET OUT!
Marketing Director: What about a book club.
Managing Director: What the hell are you talking about.
Marketing Director: A book club. Think about it. We pick a Book of the Month. Doesn't have to be any good, just whatever turkey a publisher will offer us most money to promote. Get them to give us a few free copies of from their unsold stockpile. Then we do a profit share deal with Smiths and give the punters a pound off, so it will still cost them more than if they bought it off Amazon. We get them to send in reviews and offer a prize for the best one.
Managing Director: Prize? That sounds expensive.
Marketing Director: No, we just give them a copy of the book they've just read. The punters will love it. They'll be so busy reading that they won't notice how bad the service is.
Managing Director: I love it. Get it done, now.
Revenue Maximisation Director: Yeah, and we could get the ticket inspectors to give on the spot fines to anyone we find reading a different book.
Managing Director: Now you really are taking the p**s ...
And so the FCC Book Club is born! I'm serious. Put 'book club' into their website search engine to find out more. Here's what they have say about it:
'Each month we will be reviewing a range of titles and selecting a Book of the Month for your reading enjoyment. You will be able to read an extract from the book, receive an exclusive discount on each title, as well as have the chance to win great competition prizes. Plus if you are one of the first to send us your review you could win a signed copy of the book!'
Fantastic! Their first book of the month is 'Evidence' by Jonathan Kellerman, and you can download a voucher to save £1 off the purchase price at WH Smith. That should bring it down to £16.99, a mere £5.50 more than the Amazon price. I've already sent them my review. It read: 'It's really great. My train journey flew by.' I'll let you know if I get my free copy.
A pretty good travel week, at least from Monday to Thursday.
Chuckle of the week came on Thursday morning aboard the 8.15 semi-fast from St Albans. We stopped at Mill Hill and waited, and waited a bit more. Eventually we heard the announcement: 'Would the passenger who is blocking the doors please stop so we can get on our way.' We waited some more. Then 'I'm not going to come down and help you. Holding the doors open isn't going to do you any good. You are only delaying the train. If you want to recover your property you will have to let the train go and ask the station staff to get it for you.'
It seems that some poor soul had dropped something down the side of the train and decided that the best way to retrieve it was to stop the train. To give them some credit, I suppose at least they gained the attention of the platform crew. I wonder what it was, and whether they did get it back. Eventually we were on our way and, as we pulled out of the station, I thought I caught sight of someone sitting on the platform naughty step.
Then came Friday morning. I arrived at St Albans in time for the 8.16, which appeared to be standing at the platform. Early? Surely not. No. Turned out to be the 8.11, still sitting in the station. With the 8.16 shown as on time I decided not to board the already crowded 8.11 and wait for a seat instead. Turned out to be a long wait. A train had 'broken down' at City Thameslink. For some reason this was preventing any trains, Northbound or Southbound, travelling through London and had brought the entire line to a halt (apart, of course, from the East Coast mainline pleasure trip specials which continued to thunder past with the commuter network at a standstill).
Around 40 minutes later the 8.11 set off. FCC's habit at these times is to get back on schedule by rebranding some trains that are already en route, and terminating others at random stations without warning. Today was no exception. The 8.11 set off as the delayed 8.11. Then the two 8.16s had mysteriously merged into one, and so on.
But today was the day that people power prevailed, as FCC decided to terminate one Southbound service at Cricklewood. This service was originally intended to travel through London and, as far as I know, wasn't even supposed to stop at Cricklewood. To their great credit some passengers refused to get off. Despite threats from the driver to call the police the mutinous passengers prevailed and the service continued. Well played!
You can bet that next time the train will have developed a mysterious fault!
Thursday 25 February 2010
Sunday 21 February 2010
Saturday 20th February, 2010
Home time. We load the car, start the engine and set off, bang on our planned departure time of 7.55 am. At 7.55 am and 30 seconds we are sliding gracefully back down the chalet drive, the traction advantages of front wheel drive overcome by a combination of fresh snow, a full boot, driver plus 3 passengers and low profile tyres. A liberal coating of salt is applied to the drive, the passengers discarded and we make a second, fruitless attempt. The drive is now offering all the grip of the Whistler luge track. More salt is applied & Mrs W installed behind the wheel, her delicate touch deemed more suitable to the conditions. A third attempt is made and, with engine screaming and wheels spinning, she reaches the summit and is away, hotly pursued on foot by myself and the junior Wilds. We clamber aboard like a well drilled 4 man bobsleigh team, and gain momentum as we head down the mountain.
We battle peage queues, traffic jams, regular screams of 'they're braking' from Mrs W, petrol queues, toilet queues, the Eurotunnel, the M25, tiredness, DVT and the disappointment of a 94th minute equaliser by Scunthorpe and arrive home after 14.5 hours on the road. A long trip, but worth every minute.
Thank you to our great friends Jackie, Steve, Jenna, Ben, Andy, Cameron & Scott for your excellent company, to Michelle, Gordon & Sarah (ChezMichelleMorzine) for being magnificent hosts and to Paul (The Edge Snowsports) for the superb tuition. See you next year.
We battle peage queues, traffic jams, regular screams of 'they're braking' from Mrs W, petrol queues, toilet queues, the Eurotunnel, the M25, tiredness, DVT and the disappointment of a 94th minute equaliser by Scunthorpe and arrive home after 14.5 hours on the road. A long trip, but worth every minute.
Thank you to our great friends Jackie, Steve, Jenna, Ben, Andy, Cameron & Scott for your excellent company, to Michelle, Gordon & Sarah (ChezMichelleMorzine) for being magnificent hosts and to Paul (The Edge Snowsports) for the superb tuition. See you next year.
Thursday 18 February 2010
Tuesday 16th - Friday 19th February, 2010
Reflections on a magnificent week in the French Alps:
A top holiday. Excellent company, plenty of snow, great chalet & superb food. Here are a few random memories.
I took the opportunity to ski on my own for a short while on Tuesday. During this time I sat on 6 ski lifts. Here is a summary of my experiences:
On one occasion I had the chair to myself.
On 4 occasions I shared the lift with French people, ranging in age from 11 to around 65. After the initial exchange of elbows in the queue they were, without exception, absolutely charming. They all offered an initial greeting, allowed me to practice my pigeon French and proved to be very engaging companions for each 5 - 10 minute ride.
On the sixth occasion I filled an empty space on a chair between 2 English people. I know they were English because, as soon as I had moved into said space, the chap to my left offered a sarcastic 'thanks very much'. I looked to my right & realised I had inadvertently sat between him and his son. I apologised, and offered a conciliatory remark which was completely ignored and, for the duration of the journey, I was made to feel about as welcome as an unflushed turd in Mrs W's freshly cleaned commode. I thought better of pointing out that I had every right to occupy any empty seat on a chairlift, and that had he wanted to sit next to his son he should not have left a space in between them. Instead I kept silent and reflected on the fact that, out of 6 chairlift journeys, I only encountered one ignorant, obnoxious person, and that person also happened to be the only Brit I sat with. Coincidence? I hope so, but I fear not.
One afternoon the unthinkable happened - the cable car broke down. Memories of FCC came flooding back as we debated what to do. The choice was simple: (a) stay in the queue and hope they fix it quickly, or (b) hop across to the, by now, spectacularly busy chairlift. Eventually we decided on plan b. Good move! Although we arrived 15 minutes late for a lesson, we later heard that the cable car had been out of action for around 2 hours. Bad enough for those of us trying to get up the hill, but far worse for those trapped inside. Whilst each car provides perfectly functional accommodation for 6 people taking a five minute ride to the top of a mountain they are not spectacularly well equipped to deal with the either the ingestion or excretion requirements of those six people over a 2 hour period. I imagine that some slopping out may have been required.
During a Vin Chaud stop after one of our lessons we discovered that it takes a minimum of 6 years to become a fully qualified ski instructor in the Alps, and that the key stumpling block to qualification tends to be the 'speed test'. As far as I can recall from our conversation this requires the candidate to complete 2 runs down a championship standard Giant Slalom course within an 18% margin above a benchmark time. Said benchmark time is the average of runs set by 3 world championship standard skiers (Alain Baxter, bronze medal winner at the 2002 Olympics, was one such skier this year - so they are not messing around). Seriously scary, it can take many attempts just to pass this element and many never get there. A dark race suit is de rigeur so as not to highlight the brown 'go faster' stripe.
Now what else happened .... oh yes, our chalet caught fire. Just after we'd finished our first course one evening there was a loud banging on the door and two very excited ladies pointing at the roof. We hurried out to see that the chimney had turned into a Roman candle, flames shooting skywards. The ladies' primary concern was that we should call the fire brigade. Their secondary concern was that we would have to pay for said Fire Brigade to attend as we were not French! We were reassured to learn from our chalet hosts that the Fire Station was brand new, located close to town for rapid response, and with state of the art equipment. They were duly summoned. We waited outside while our hosts went back inside to set about the fire. 25 minutes later the fire was out, and the fire brigade arrived with wailing sirens, flashing lights and very shiny chrome helmets. They charged excitedly into the chalet, charged out again, climbed up on the roof and climbed down again. Clearly disappointed to find nothing to point their high powered hoses at, they reluctantly allowed us back into the chalet to resume our dinner while they set about clearing the chimney. This involved one brave fellow (Vincent) on the roof, shouting down the chimney at his colleague in the lounge, telling him where to stick his poker for maximum effect. After dislodging several kilos of charcoal and dust they appeared satisfied and retired outside to share a glass of wine, or several, with our host who eventually persuaded them to leave with the aid of a case of red. All very convivial, but I suspect that if the fire had really taken hold there would not have been much chalet left by the time they arrived. Still, all's well that ends well.
A top holiday. Excellent company, plenty of snow, great chalet & superb food. Here are a few random memories.
I took the opportunity to ski on my own for a short while on Tuesday. During this time I sat on 6 ski lifts. Here is a summary of my experiences:
On one occasion I had the chair to myself.
On 4 occasions I shared the lift with French people, ranging in age from 11 to around 65. After the initial exchange of elbows in the queue they were, without exception, absolutely charming. They all offered an initial greeting, allowed me to practice my pigeon French and proved to be very engaging companions for each 5 - 10 minute ride.
On the sixth occasion I filled an empty space on a chair between 2 English people. I know they were English because, as soon as I had moved into said space, the chap to my left offered a sarcastic 'thanks very much'. I looked to my right & realised I had inadvertently sat between him and his son. I apologised, and offered a conciliatory remark which was completely ignored and, for the duration of the journey, I was made to feel about as welcome as an unflushed turd in Mrs W's freshly cleaned commode. I thought better of pointing out that I had every right to occupy any empty seat on a chairlift, and that had he wanted to sit next to his son he should not have left a space in between them. Instead I kept silent and reflected on the fact that, out of 6 chairlift journeys, I only encountered one ignorant, obnoxious person, and that person also happened to be the only Brit I sat with. Coincidence? I hope so, but I fear not.
One afternoon the unthinkable happened - the cable car broke down. Memories of FCC came flooding back as we debated what to do. The choice was simple: (a) stay in the queue and hope they fix it quickly, or (b) hop across to the, by now, spectacularly busy chairlift. Eventually we decided on plan b. Good move! Although we arrived 15 minutes late for a lesson, we later heard that the cable car had been out of action for around 2 hours. Bad enough for those of us trying to get up the hill, but far worse for those trapped inside. Whilst each car provides perfectly functional accommodation for 6 people taking a five minute ride to the top of a mountain they are not spectacularly well equipped to deal with the either the ingestion or excretion requirements of those six people over a 2 hour period. I imagine that some slopping out may have been required.
During a Vin Chaud stop after one of our lessons we discovered that it takes a minimum of 6 years to become a fully qualified ski instructor in the Alps, and that the key stumpling block to qualification tends to be the 'speed test'. As far as I can recall from our conversation this requires the candidate to complete 2 runs down a championship standard Giant Slalom course within an 18% margin above a benchmark time. Said benchmark time is the average of runs set by 3 world championship standard skiers (Alain Baxter, bronze medal winner at the 2002 Olympics, was one such skier this year - so they are not messing around). Seriously scary, it can take many attempts just to pass this element and many never get there. A dark race suit is de rigeur so as not to highlight the brown 'go faster' stripe.
Now what else happened .... oh yes, our chalet caught fire. Just after we'd finished our first course one evening there was a loud banging on the door and two very excited ladies pointing at the roof. We hurried out to see that the chimney had turned into a Roman candle, flames shooting skywards. The ladies' primary concern was that we should call the fire brigade. Their secondary concern was that we would have to pay for said Fire Brigade to attend as we were not French! We were reassured to learn from our chalet hosts that the Fire Station was brand new, located close to town for rapid response, and with state of the art equipment. They were duly summoned. We waited outside while our hosts went back inside to set about the fire. 25 minutes later the fire was out, and the fire brigade arrived with wailing sirens, flashing lights and very shiny chrome helmets. They charged excitedly into the chalet, charged out again, climbed up on the roof and climbed down again. Clearly disappointed to find nothing to point their high powered hoses at, they reluctantly allowed us back into the chalet to resume our dinner while they set about clearing the chimney. This involved one brave fellow (Vincent) on the roof, shouting down the chimney at his colleague in the lounge, telling him where to stick his poker for maximum effect. After dislodging several kilos of charcoal and dust they appeared satisfied and retired outside to share a glass of wine, or several, with our host who eventually persuaded them to leave with the aid of a case of red. All very convivial, but I suspect that if the fire had really taken hold there would not have been much chalet left by the time they arrived. Still, all's well that ends well.
Monday 15th February, 2010
There are certain similarities between ski holiday & working week mornings. Firstly you are required to get out of bed earlier than really feels healthy. Then you pull on a set of clothes that ordinarily you wouldn't want to be seen wearing in public. Then you trudge to the ski lift to join thousands of other punters all trying to get to the same place at the same time using the only mode of transport realistically available, having already paid a large sum of money for the privilege of doing so. Still, at least the cable car doesn't break down, the general humour is rather better, and there is the promise of much fun at the other end.
Today is first lesson day & we meet Paul, L'instructeur (The Edge Snowsports), at the top. Paul is a very fine fellow indeed. Endlessly patient & good humoured, he explains the basic principles to us with great clarity and enthusiasm, even though he's done it thousands of times before, and in a meaningful way, so that it is easy to put it into practice. He also finds challenges appropriate to the level of all group members so that everyone's confidence is boosted, rather than damaged.
I learned more in 5 minutes from Paul than I did in a whole week the year previous year when the best our instructor could manage was 'You ski like you are driving a Jaguar'. Initially I'd been quite pleased with this, as I thought driving a Jaguar would generally be regarded as a good thing. But eventually, as I excavated snow from my nostrils for perhaps the tenth time, it occurred to me that perhaps he might not be praising my technique, although when pressed he offered no useful remedial advice. All holiday I was approached by strangers saying they recognised me from the indentations of my face in the piste.
Back to today and, brimming with confidence after today's lesson, one of our number suggests returning to base via a route 'no more difficult than we had just done'. We were soon staring down a near vertical drop which had clearly been mislabelled on the map. It should've had a skull & crossbones next to it. At this point it dawns on me that skiing well seems to be at least 90% about overcoming your self preservation instinct. With brain telling me I absolutely should not be launching myself down this mountain, and sphincter muscle set to high pitched squeak, I set off and, thanks to the expert tuition, complete the journey mostly on ski, with no major damage but with a healthy regard for my own limitations.
Back to the chalet for cake, tea and dinner. A special birthday dinner for one of our party cooked by our excellent chalet hosts. Afterwards, the younger members of our group prepared a special delicacy for us called 'Jager Bombs'. A delightful concoction of Jagermeister (an evil spirit made from a blend of 50 herbs and spices - why does anything need to contain 50 herbs and spices?) mixed with Red Bull and apparently a special favourite of students the world over. We show those youngsters a thing or two, and retire to bed.
Today is first lesson day & we meet Paul, L'instructeur (The Edge Snowsports), at the top. Paul is a very fine fellow indeed. Endlessly patient & good humoured, he explains the basic principles to us with great clarity and enthusiasm, even though he's done it thousands of times before, and in a meaningful way, so that it is easy to put it into practice. He also finds challenges appropriate to the level of all group members so that everyone's confidence is boosted, rather than damaged.
I learned more in 5 minutes from Paul than I did in a whole week the year previous year when the best our instructor could manage was 'You ski like you are driving a Jaguar'. Initially I'd been quite pleased with this, as I thought driving a Jaguar would generally be regarded as a good thing. But eventually, as I excavated snow from my nostrils for perhaps the tenth time, it occurred to me that perhaps he might not be praising my technique, although when pressed he offered no useful remedial advice. All holiday I was approached by strangers saying they recognised me from the indentations of my face in the piste.
Back to today and, brimming with confidence after today's lesson, one of our number suggests returning to base via a route 'no more difficult than we had just done'. We were soon staring down a near vertical drop which had clearly been mislabelled on the map. It should've had a skull & crossbones next to it. At this point it dawns on me that skiing well seems to be at least 90% about overcoming your self preservation instinct. With brain telling me I absolutely should not be launching myself down this mountain, and sphincter muscle set to high pitched squeak, I set off and, thanks to the expert tuition, complete the journey mostly on ski, with no major damage but with a healthy regard for my own limitations.
Back to the chalet for cake, tea and dinner. A special birthday dinner for one of our party cooked by our excellent chalet hosts. Afterwards, the younger members of our group prepared a special delicacy for us called 'Jager Bombs'. A delightful concoction of Jagermeister (an evil spirit made from a blend of 50 herbs and spices - why does anything need to contain 50 herbs and spices?) mixed with Red Bull and apparently a special favourite of students the world over. We show those youngsters a thing or two, and retire to bed.
Sunday 14 February 2010
Sunday 14th February, 2010
Bloody valentine's day, I hate it. Mrs Wild & I exchange cards & a peck on the cheek before donning knee supports, blister plasters, thermal underwear, matching skin tight yellow & pink spandex suits & expensive instruments of torture, otherwise known as ski boots.
We deliver Master W to his ski lesson (Category - British Olympic hopeful; Target - basic snowplough) and off we set for the bubble lift. After intensive queuing (French style) we barge our way into a cable car and arrive, exhausted, at the summit. We head to the cafteria for a rest.
Suitably fortified we head back down, in the bubble lift, to collect Master W at the end of his lesson, have lunch and our afternoon nap.
Back up in the bubble, and we hit the piste. We speed, stylishly, down the nursery slope as the locals cast admiring glances at our outfits. But it's a bit chilly, so we head back down for tea, cake, a hot bath & dinner.
There is mild excitement during the evening as, for reasons best known to himself, one of our party plunges headlong down the chalet stairs into the basement. Fortunately he appears to suffer nothing worse than a mild concussion, carpet burn to the forehead, and fractured ribs & wrist. We allow him a strict ration of ice for his ribs (ensuring sufficient remains for our G&Ts) & set his wrist such that his fingers adopt a beer bottle holding shape, & the evening continues successfully.
Early to bed in anticipation of another very busy day tomorrow.
We deliver Master W to his ski lesson (Category - British Olympic hopeful; Target - basic snowplough) and off we set for the bubble lift. After intensive queuing (French style) we barge our way into a cable car and arrive, exhausted, at the summit. We head to the cafteria for a rest.
Suitably fortified we head back down, in the bubble lift, to collect Master W at the end of his lesson, have lunch and our afternoon nap.
Back up in the bubble, and we hit the piste. We speed, stylishly, down the nursery slope as the locals cast admiring glances at our outfits. But it's a bit chilly, so we head back down for tea, cake, a hot bath & dinner.
There is mild excitement during the evening as, for reasons best known to himself, one of our party plunges headlong down the chalet stairs into the basement. Fortunately he appears to suffer nothing worse than a mild concussion, carpet burn to the forehead, and fractured ribs & wrist. We allow him a strict ration of ice for his ribs (ensuring sufficient remains for our G&Ts) & set his wrist such that his fingers adopt a beer bottle holding shape, & the evening continues successfully.
Early to bed in anticipation of another very busy day tomorrow.
Saturday 13th February, 2010
Up at le craque d'awn and off we set for the resort. We set a blistering pace until Mrs Wild's inbuilt radar kicks in and we have to slow down. Mrs W is none too comfortable in cars either and the radar is set at approx 80mph (if she is in the back with glasses off) or 60mph (if she is in the front with glasses on). Guess which I prefer. I daren't tell her the speed in kmh.
Fortunately everyone else is soon asleep and I'm left to my own devices. Bliss. There's a momentary scare as I hit the only pothole in France, but fortunately they all soon settle down again quickly and we pound on to the first fuel stop.
I hand over driving duties to Mrs W. We pull out of the service station at le vitesse de l'escargot and I'm ashamed to say that I immediately start to display all of my appalling shortcomings as a passenger. Furtive glances across at the speedometer, wincing at the gearchanges, and reaching across with my silver tipped cane to press the accelerator. Of course I realise that none of this is the slightest bit helpful, but I just can't help myself.
Eventually it pays off, and I am handed the honour of the final driving stint into the resort. Thank goodness we have no need of snow chains. It's not that I don't have any. In fact I purchased some at great expense, only to read in the owners handbook that they should not be used with the particular model that I own. I don't know why, but naturally I am none too keen to find out. At least we'd have been better off than friends we bumped into at the Eurotunnel terminal. They had invested in 'snow socks'. Hmmm. Now I'm no physicist, but what I do know about the traction properties of socks on slippery surfaces suggests to me that this may be a solution of somewhat dubious merit. I hope they didn't get to find out.
We head for the hire shop. After Mrs and Miss Wild come over all unnecessary at the sight of the shop manager we gather our equipment and off we set at full speed ... back to the chalet for drinks, dinner and bed.
Fortunately everyone else is soon asleep and I'm left to my own devices. Bliss. There's a momentary scare as I hit the only pothole in France, but fortunately they all soon settle down again quickly and we pound on to the first fuel stop.
I hand over driving duties to Mrs W. We pull out of the service station at le vitesse de l'escargot and I'm ashamed to say that I immediately start to display all of my appalling shortcomings as a passenger. Furtive glances across at the speedometer, wincing at the gearchanges, and reaching across with my silver tipped cane to press the accelerator. Of course I realise that none of this is the slightest bit helpful, but I just can't help myself.
Eventually it pays off, and I am handed the honour of the final driving stint into the resort. Thank goodness we have no need of snow chains. It's not that I don't have any. In fact I purchased some at great expense, only to read in the owners handbook that they should not be used with the particular model that I own. I don't know why, but naturally I am none too keen to find out. At least we'd have been better off than friends we bumped into at the Eurotunnel terminal. They had invested in 'snow socks'. Hmmm. Now I'm no physicist, but what I do know about the traction properties of socks on slippery surfaces suggests to me that this may be a solution of somewhat dubious merit. I hope they didn't get to find out.
We head for the hire shop. After Mrs and Miss Wild come over all unnecessary at the sight of the shop manager we gather our equipment and off we set at full speed ... back to the chalet for drinks, dinner and bed.
Friday 12th February, 2010
Wilds on holiday:
Heading for France for half term skiing. Packed the car (yes, the car. The current Mrs Wild does not like to fly), dropped the kids at the cattery & headed south. Heard miaow from back, realised our mistake, headed north, dropped cat, retrieved kids, headed south again. Heard arguing from back. That's better.
Wow. The snow's fantastic...in Kent. Resulting Eurotunnel delays are 1.5 hours. Almost FCC levels. Fortunately we are 1.5 hours early, so that all works out fine.
Under the channel we go, & soon we are experiencing the joys of French motoring. And I really do mean joys. I love it.
First of all they drive in kilometers, and when you drive in kilometers you get to your destination much quicker than if you drive in miles. In fact, I have taken to driving in kilometers in the uk wherever possible. I'm surprised more people don't.
Second, the French drive properly on motorways. Move out, overtake, move back in again. Such a simple concept, yet somehow we British are too simple to grasp it. An Englishmans middle lane is his castle and all that.
Third they sure do know how to build roads. Temperatures sub zero, snow all the way & roads billiard table smooth. Why can't we do that?
We reach our overnight halt in decent time. Fortunately it's late, so we are simply grateful for our beds & too tired to spend much time studying the peeling wallpaper & threadbare carpet.
Heading for France for half term skiing. Packed the car (yes, the car. The current Mrs Wild does not like to fly), dropped the kids at the cattery & headed south. Heard miaow from back, realised our mistake, headed north, dropped cat, retrieved kids, headed south again. Heard arguing from back. That's better.
Wow. The snow's fantastic...in Kent. Resulting Eurotunnel delays are 1.5 hours. Almost FCC levels. Fortunately we are 1.5 hours early, so that all works out fine.
Under the channel we go, & soon we are experiencing the joys of French motoring. And I really do mean joys. I love it.
First of all they drive in kilometers, and when you drive in kilometers you get to your destination much quicker than if you drive in miles. In fact, I have taken to driving in kilometers in the uk wherever possible. I'm surprised more people don't.
Second, the French drive properly on motorways. Move out, overtake, move back in again. Such a simple concept, yet somehow we British are too simple to grasp it. An Englishmans middle lane is his castle and all that.
Third they sure do know how to build roads. Temperatures sub zero, snow all the way & roads billiard table smooth. Why can't we do that?
We reach our overnight halt in decent time. Fortunately it's late, so we are simply grateful for our beds & too tired to spend much time studying the peeling wallpaper & threadbare carpet.
Thursday 11 February 2010
Thursday 11th February, 2010
Late departure for me this morning. Boarded a fast train and off we set ... to Radlett. Hang on, we're not supposed to be stopping here. We sat, we waited, and we waited some more. Driver informs us that there is a points problem (well I suppose it was a bit chilly) and that we would only be going as far as St P. Could've been worse I suppose.
Off we set, rattled across some working points and slunk into the overground station, next to the mighty Eurostars. I could almost feel the train's yellow face turning FCC pink with shame.
4 carriage cattle train on the way home. Described as a mobile veal crate by a fellow passenger. Spot on, I thought.
Off we set, rattled across some working points and slunk into the overground station, next to the mighty Eurostars. I could almost feel the train's yellow face turning FCC pink with shame.
4 carriage cattle train on the way home. Described as a mobile veal crate by a fellow passenger. Spot on, I thought.
Tuesday 9th February, 2010
Mid afternoon Eurostar back to London. Same again in reverse and arrived on time. All I needed was for FCC to take me the last 20 miles of my journey to St Albans in time to head to Vicarage Road to watch the glory Hornet boys in action. Should be no problem, plenty of time in hand.
Arrived at FCC entrance to see a train was due in 2 minutes, and running on time. Perfect! Sprinted down to platform to find that, in the space of 30 seconds it had been delayed by 15 minutes. I waited, waited some more, and looked back at the departure board to see that it, and several other trains that would have been suitable, had been cancelled. Eventually forced my way onto a slow train and made it home just in time.
Arrived at FCC entrance to see a train was due in 2 minutes, and running on time. Perfect! Sprinted down to platform to find that, in the space of 30 seconds it had been delayed by 15 minutes. I waited, waited some more, and looked back at the departure board to see that it, and several other trains that would have been suitable, had been cancelled. Eventually forced my way onto a slow train and made it home just in time.
Monday 8th February, 2010
No dramas this morning.
Eurostar to Paris this evening. Nice warm departure lounge, nice clean train, left on time, went very, very fast, didn't break down and arrived on time. Now that's the way to do it!
Eurostar to Paris this evening. Nice warm departure lounge, nice clean train, left on time, went very, very fast, didn't break down and arrived on time. Now that's the way to do it!
Friday 5 February 2010
Friday 5th February, 2010
Arrived at station this morning, ears numb after an evening's entertainment with Rammstein last night. Thought I heard the station announcer apologising for the screens showing duff information. Must have misheard. No, there it is again. Blimey, its taken them long enough to realise that!
No travel problems today.
Met the managers at St Albans tonight. I was reassured that (a) the 5% compensation had been decided on by other management and if we don't think its enough to compensate for what we've had to endure then there isn't a damn thing we can do about it and (b) the entire fleet of trains is due to be replaced in 2013, but in the meantime we have to make do with the 23 new trains and 98 old trains we've already got, but not to worry as there is an ongoing refurbishment programme that will improve their interiors and reliability. Walked home. Had to duck to avoid the pig flying around the station forecourt.
No travel problems today.
Met the managers at St Albans tonight. I was reassured that (a) the 5% compensation had been decided on by other management and if we don't think its enough to compensate for what we've had to endure then there isn't a damn thing we can do about it and (b) the entire fleet of trains is due to be replaced in 2013, but in the meantime we have to make do with the 23 new trains and 98 old trains we've already got, but not to worry as there is an ongoing refurbishment programme that will improve their interiors and reliability. Walked home. Had to duck to avoid the pig flying around the station forecourt.
Thursday 4th February, 2010
Sat down this morning and was joined by a young lady who occupied her entire journey with what I believe is commonly referred to as 'putting on the slap’. Actually this is quite a common sight as quite a number of commuters (mostly female) use their travel time to this effect.
For the most part I find this a harmless activity, and I've no fundamental objection to it. Indeed one of my greatest pleasures is a sharp application of the brakes while the current Mrs Wild is putting on her lippy in the passenger seat. How she laughs! However there was one aspect in this particular instance that did cause me a degree of discomfort.
The process varies in complexity and duration (presumably depending on the degree of transformation thought to be required) but almost always consists of the same fundamental elements. First the tool kit is produced. Usually a small-ish bag, resembling a pencil case, and mirror. Then follows an initial survey, followed by application of a matt undercoat. The water colour tin is then produced and differing top coats are applied to certain, presumably key, features (either by hand or using some form of paintbrush). Felt tips and crayons are then used to apply delicate final touches around the eyes and mouth.
I do wonder how ladies are able to create such works of art whilst in a moving vehicle, and in full public view. What happens if there is a sudden lurch, or they make a mistake? I remember chucking tins of airfix paint across the room after an accidental slip of the hand rendered the Hawker Hurricane cockpit windscreen opaque, but I've never seen that happen on the train. I’ve also never seen it all have to be rubbed out and started again. Perhaps the trick is to just carry on and pretend it was meant it to look like that all the time.
Anyway, usually that’s the process finished, but not this time. The piece de resistance was to follow. The toolkit was put away, and a small bottle produced from the handbag. Then, without so much as a ‘Do you mind if I ...’, or ‘Brace yourself, this might smart a bit ...’ a blast of perfume was applied to each wrist along with, it seemed, much of the surrounding area. For all I know this could have an expensive vintage from one of the Great French Perfume Houses, but at that proximity to the blast zone, and in a confined area, it was no less than a hostile assault on the nostrils, testing the gag reflex to the limit. Not the sort of reaction I suspect the lady in question was looking for.
Still, I suppose it masked the usual underlying smell of a decaying FCC carriage, at least for a day.
For the most part I find this a harmless activity, and I've no fundamental objection to it. Indeed one of my greatest pleasures is a sharp application of the brakes while the current Mrs Wild is putting on her lippy in the passenger seat. How she laughs! However there was one aspect in this particular instance that did cause me a degree of discomfort.
The process varies in complexity and duration (presumably depending on the degree of transformation thought to be required) but almost always consists of the same fundamental elements. First the tool kit is produced. Usually a small-ish bag, resembling a pencil case, and mirror. Then follows an initial survey, followed by application of a matt undercoat. The water colour tin is then produced and differing top coats are applied to certain, presumably key, features (either by hand or using some form of paintbrush). Felt tips and crayons are then used to apply delicate final touches around the eyes and mouth.
I do wonder how ladies are able to create such works of art whilst in a moving vehicle, and in full public view. What happens if there is a sudden lurch, or they make a mistake? I remember chucking tins of airfix paint across the room after an accidental slip of the hand rendered the Hawker Hurricane cockpit windscreen opaque, but I've never seen that happen on the train. I’ve also never seen it all have to be rubbed out and started again. Perhaps the trick is to just carry on and pretend it was meant it to look like that all the time.
Anyway, usually that’s the process finished, but not this time. The piece de resistance was to follow. The toolkit was put away, and a small bottle produced from the handbag. Then, without so much as a ‘Do you mind if I ...’, or ‘Brace yourself, this might smart a bit ...’ a blast of perfume was applied to each wrist along with, it seemed, much of the surrounding area. For all I know this could have an expensive vintage from one of the Great French Perfume Houses, but at that proximity to the blast zone, and in a confined area, it was no less than a hostile assault on the nostrils, testing the gag reflex to the limit. Not the sort of reaction I suspect the lady in question was looking for.
Still, I suppose it masked the usual underlying smell of a decaying FCC carriage, at least for a day.
Wednesday 3 February 2010
Wednesday 3rd February, 2010
Had an early visit to a physiotherapist this morning to sort out some back discomfort. Diagnosed with First Capital Connect shoulder. Compression of the vertebrae resulting from spending prolonged periods in unnatural positions, causing muscle spasms and frayed nerves.
After stretching me back into something approximating a normal posture he advised bi-weekly return visits, and to avoid First Capital Connect completely. I told him this was not practical as I had to get into work so he wrote me a doctor’s note to hand to the on duty station manager entitling me to demand that the next passing East Midlands express service be flagged down and that I (and only I) be admitted and escorted to an empty seat.
Arrive at the station, brandishing my precious letter. Just then an East Midlands express rushes through and the slipstream snatches it from my grasp. It flutters away, down the tracks.
Boarded the 8.16 semi-fast and slumped, disconsolately, into a seat. Long delay at Elstree. No explanation. Long delay at Mill Hill. No explanation. Long delay at West Hampstead. ‘Drives’ eventually tells us that the rear unit is the problem, the fitter is looking at it, but the fix following the winter freeze has not held and the elastic band holding the paper clip onto the overhead wire has snapped.
Drives goes on to tell us that they might be able to fix it. We all get off and head for the Northern Line.
After stretching me back into something approximating a normal posture he advised bi-weekly return visits, and to avoid First Capital Connect completely. I told him this was not practical as I had to get into work so he wrote me a doctor’s note to hand to the on duty station manager entitling me to demand that the next passing East Midlands express service be flagged down and that I (and only I) be admitted and escorted to an empty seat.
Arrive at the station, brandishing my precious letter. Just then an East Midlands express rushes through and the slipstream snatches it from my grasp. It flutters away, down the tracks.
Boarded the 8.16 semi-fast and slumped, disconsolately, into a seat. Long delay at Elstree. No explanation. Long delay at Mill Hill. No explanation. Long delay at West Hampstead. ‘Drives’ eventually tells us that the rear unit is the problem, the fitter is looking at it, but the fix following the winter freeze has not held and the elastic band holding the paper clip onto the overhead wire has snapped.
Drives goes on to tell us that they might be able to fix it. We all get off and head for the Northern Line.
Tuesday 2nd February, 2010
An uneventful day. Joined by a travelling Policemen this morning between St Albans and Elstree. Hope he wasn't on his way to an emergency.
Monday 1st February, 2010
Made the 8.16 semi fast this morning, together with a good mate who took pity and stopped to give me a lift to the station.
Uneventful journey until we reached St Pancras. No. Not that St Pancras. We’d pulled out of there with no issues but then ground to a halt in the old Thameslink station. Why have we stopped here? Driver error, we thought. Old habits die hard.
Turns out that a train had broken down ahead of us, and the driver, knowing we might be waiting a while, told us he thought we might prefer to be stopped in the old station rather than in a tunnel. Why? Frankly the darkness would have been preferable. It always was a godawful, festering pit, and it hasn’t been made any better by the layers of pigeon s**t that have accumulated, despite the strategically placed spikes. Perhaps it was a tactical move from FCC to remind us just how lucky we are to have the nice new station. What next? Is he going to open the doors and invite us to take a stroll along the platform for old times sake?
Fortunately not. As we sat there, waiting, it suddenly dawned on us. It has long been a mystery how the graffiti artists get down there to work their magic, but could our driver be the secret artist. He sees his chance, spotting a gap in the schedule, pulls up in the station and dives out with his spray cans? We were soon on our way again.
Why not give them a free reign down there? Much better to have some colourful, inventive decoration to look at than layers of detritus and grime.
Uneventful journey until we reached St Pancras. No. Not that St Pancras. We’d pulled out of there with no issues but then ground to a halt in the old Thameslink station. Why have we stopped here? Driver error, we thought. Old habits die hard.
Turns out that a train had broken down ahead of us, and the driver, knowing we might be waiting a while, told us he thought we might prefer to be stopped in the old station rather than in a tunnel. Why? Frankly the darkness would have been preferable. It always was a godawful, festering pit, and it hasn’t been made any better by the layers of pigeon s**t that have accumulated, despite the strategically placed spikes. Perhaps it was a tactical move from FCC to remind us just how lucky we are to have the nice new station. What next? Is he going to open the doors and invite us to take a stroll along the platform for old times sake?
Fortunately not. As we sat there, waiting, it suddenly dawned on us. It has long been a mystery how the graffiti artists get down there to work their magic, but could our driver be the secret artist. He sees his chance, spotting a gap in the schedule, pulls up in the station and dives out with his spray cans? We were soon on our way again.
Why not give them a free reign down there? Much better to have some colourful, inventive decoration to look at than layers of detritus and grime.
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