Mathematicians are irritated by the phrase 'the law of averages'. There is no such phenomenon, they chide loftily. I daresay the same criticism could be levelled at the law of unintended consequences but I'm a sturdy adherent. When my daughter announced that she would be abandoning the UK for Italy, at least temporarily, I wondered why. Other than smouldering latin males, food that's the envy of the world and a perfect climate I couldn't fathom the attraction. She replied simply that she had enjoyed her childhood Italian holidays. My main recollection of those idylls is constant squabbling between her and her younger brother, but maybe rose-coloured spectacles have eluded the mathematicians' hit list.
A three month internship in a European country is a gentle transition from the purposeful world of university to the inanity of working life and she adopted an admirable sang froid, taking a relaxing holiday with friends the week before she was due to leave as the hunt for accommodation appeared to be sorted. But it acquired a fresh urgency when it dawned on us that there might be something not altogether kosher about a request to send money to Nigeria as a deposit for an apartment in Florence. Thwarted of proper digs, she spent the first week in a hostel. Fortunately Google has not yet found a way to embed sounds into email as the shriek accompanying the message in which she announced that there were bedbugs at the hostel would have shattered glass. Curiously she didn't regard cohabiting with local fauna as a worthwhile notch on the traveller's bedpost and hotfooted it to a friend's place which she eventually took over when he departed.
Working only four days a week enables me to stack my non-working days into mini-breaks with satisfying regularity so Florence became an obvious target for a long weekend. As an indifferent flier, rewarding the stress of flying with the promise of further torture through the allocation of airmiles has, to me, always epitomised the addition of insult to injury. But when flying is unavoidable, replete with airmiles, I prefer what are laughably termed full service airlines to the larger indignities of the low cost carriers. So it was that I left work earlier than usual to catch a train earlier than necessary to take me to Gatwick. After a promising start, the train ground to a halt in a cutting, unwontedly, with the dreary towers of East Croydon still fresh in the memory. When an announcement was heard requesting the guard to contact the driver, collective grimaces were elicited from the passengers. Not going to be good news, opined someone, superfluously. There had been an accident at Gatwick station, we learned, and no trains could enter or leave the area. Eventually we crawled to Salfords where we were given the option of leaving the train. My speculation on the possibility of a taxi was greeted with a hollow laugh from a regular commuter, comfortably ensconced in his usual corner and clearly in no hurry to return to domestic bliss. Horley did offer transport alternatives so when the driver grimly assured us that the train was proceeding no further 'any time soon' a couple of dozen hopefuls tugging wheelie bags exited the station to thin drizzle. ln the taxi office we were informed that no cars would be available for an hour. The only option appeared to be the local bus, due in 10 minutes. Impromptu acquaintances were made as people offered cash to those with only euros. By this time, my obsessionally early departure seemed niggardly and as the clock ticked towards the gate closing time, hope all but evaporated. I considered abandoning the journey and rebooking my flight for the next day. Before this plan could crystallise into action, the train guard appeared at the station entrance and announced that the train had clearance for Gatwick. We trooped back, avoiding the eyes of passengers who had wisely stayed on board throughout. More for form's sake than with any hope of catching the flight, I raced though the airport, arriving sweatily at the gate ten minutes after the departure time but with ten minutes in hand as the flight had been delayed.
The lucky conjunction of a late train and delayed flight was, I soon realised, a Pyrric victory as the consequent late arrival at Pisa would jeopardise my chances of making the last train to Florence, which even on the original timetable were slim. I'd taken the precaution of opting for hand luggage but even speeding through immigration in the gratifyingly empty airport I was five minutes adrift. Other dismayed passengers directed me towards the bus service, which, even with an hour's wait seemed a prudent alternative to an unplanned stopover in Pisa or a taxi to Florence. As I nestled in the corner of bus, it slowly gorged itself on more displaced train passengers. At five past eleven, the driver started the engine, evidently a signal to laggards that he would leave promptly. Precisely at quarter past, the due departure time, he commenced the process of examining tickets. Most passengers had bought tickets in advance, thereby securing a small discount, and these were printed on tissue-thin paper with barcodes which the driver dutifully scanned with a handheld device which then printed a ticket, indistinguishable, to my eye, from the one tendered. This was passed to the passenger while the original joined the bundle in his hand. There were many family groups on board and they produced streamers, half a yard long, of tickets each with its own barcode, each requiring scanning. Juggling the scanner and a growing bouquet of paper, progress down the aisle was glacial as the scanner required frequent coaxing before it would clock the code and fizz out a replica ticket. Far from annoying tired passengers, this unedifying spectacle engendered a curious bonhomie; the driver smiling and shrugging at the vagaries of his machine and the passengers joshing conspiratorially as if the whole performance were an unexpected treat or comforting reassurance that they were safely home in Italy after the impositions of efficiency endured at their northern European holiday destinations. Not being party to the insights of this strange ritual, I became increasingly irritated as the minutes passed, conscious that, even assuming she had received my text explaining my switch from train to bus, my daughter would be waiting to meet me. Eventually the ticket god was propitiated and we rumbled out of the airport and through the velvet darkness towards Florence.
© David Thompson 2012
A three month internship in a European country is a gentle transition from the purposeful world of university to the inanity of working life and she adopted an admirable sang froid, taking a relaxing holiday with friends the week before she was due to leave as the hunt for accommodation appeared to be sorted. But it acquired a fresh urgency when it dawned on us that there might be something not altogether kosher about a request to send money to Nigeria as a deposit for an apartment in Florence. Thwarted of proper digs, she spent the first week in a hostel. Fortunately Google has not yet found a way to embed sounds into email as the shriek accompanying the message in which she announced that there were bedbugs at the hostel would have shattered glass. Curiously she didn't regard cohabiting with local fauna as a worthwhile notch on the traveller's bedpost and hotfooted it to a friend's place which she eventually took over when he departed.
Working only four days a week enables me to stack my non-working days into mini-breaks with satisfying regularity so Florence became an obvious target for a long weekend. As an indifferent flier, rewarding the stress of flying with the promise of further torture through the allocation of airmiles has, to me, always epitomised the addition of insult to injury. But when flying is unavoidable, replete with airmiles, I prefer what are laughably termed full service airlines to the larger indignities of the low cost carriers. So it was that I left work earlier than usual to catch a train earlier than necessary to take me to Gatwick. After a promising start, the train ground to a halt in a cutting, unwontedly, with the dreary towers of East Croydon still fresh in the memory. When an announcement was heard requesting the guard to contact the driver, collective grimaces were elicited from the passengers. Not going to be good news, opined someone, superfluously. There had been an accident at Gatwick station, we learned, and no trains could enter or leave the area. Eventually we crawled to Salfords where we were given the option of leaving the train. My speculation on the possibility of a taxi was greeted with a hollow laugh from a regular commuter, comfortably ensconced in his usual corner and clearly in no hurry to return to domestic bliss. Horley did offer transport alternatives so when the driver grimly assured us that the train was proceeding no further 'any time soon' a couple of dozen hopefuls tugging wheelie bags exited the station to thin drizzle. ln the taxi office we were informed that no cars would be available for an hour. The only option appeared to be the local bus, due in 10 minutes. Impromptu acquaintances were made as people offered cash to those with only euros. By this time, my obsessionally early departure seemed niggardly and as the clock ticked towards the gate closing time, hope all but evaporated. I considered abandoning the journey and rebooking my flight for the next day. Before this plan could crystallise into action, the train guard appeared at the station entrance and announced that the train had clearance for Gatwick. We trooped back, avoiding the eyes of passengers who had wisely stayed on board throughout. More for form's sake than with any hope of catching the flight, I raced though the airport, arriving sweatily at the gate ten minutes after the departure time but with ten minutes in hand as the flight had been delayed.
The lucky conjunction of a late train and delayed flight was, I soon realised, a Pyrric victory as the consequent late arrival at Pisa would jeopardise my chances of making the last train to Florence, which even on the original timetable were slim. I'd taken the precaution of opting for hand luggage but even speeding through immigration in the gratifyingly empty airport I was five minutes adrift. Other dismayed passengers directed me towards the bus service, which, even with an hour's wait seemed a prudent alternative to an unplanned stopover in Pisa or a taxi to Florence. As I nestled in the corner of bus, it slowly gorged itself on more displaced train passengers. At five past eleven, the driver started the engine, evidently a signal to laggards that he would leave promptly. Precisely at quarter past, the due departure time, he commenced the process of examining tickets. Most passengers had bought tickets in advance, thereby securing a small discount, and these were printed on tissue-thin paper with barcodes which the driver dutifully scanned with a handheld device which then printed a ticket, indistinguishable, to my eye, from the one tendered. This was passed to the passenger while the original joined the bundle in his hand. There were many family groups on board and they produced streamers, half a yard long, of tickets each with its own barcode, each requiring scanning. Juggling the scanner and a growing bouquet of paper, progress down the aisle was glacial as the scanner required frequent coaxing before it would clock the code and fizz out a replica ticket. Far from annoying tired passengers, this unedifying spectacle engendered a curious bonhomie; the driver smiling and shrugging at the vagaries of his machine and the passengers joshing conspiratorially as if the whole performance were an unexpected treat or comforting reassurance that they were safely home in Italy after the impositions of efficiency endured at their northern European holiday destinations. Not being party to the insights of this strange ritual, I became increasingly irritated as the minutes passed, conscious that, even assuming she had received my text explaining my switch from train to bus, my daughter would be waiting to meet me. Eventually the ticket god was propitiated and we rumbled out of the airport and through the velvet darkness towards Florence.
© David Thompson 2012
No comments:
Post a Comment