I went to Newcastle yesterday. I’ve never been to Newcastle before. In fact, strictly speaking, I still haven’t really been to Newcastle. But while daydreaming at York station waiting for the Scarborough train to transport me one rural stop to Malton, home of the Ginger Pig Farm, I ran (or a close approximation thereof) to Platform 5 as instructed, leapt on to the train and threw myself gratefully into a miraculously vacant seat as the engine chugged away from the platform and the tannoy announced: This is the 12.04 North Eastern Service to Aberdeen calling at… yes, you’ve guessed it… Newcastle.
Damn it.
All hopes of efficiency and professionalism lost.
The guard took pity on me and didn’t charge me for the round trip. Even offered me the use of his mobile phone to call the person who was waiting for me. And on the way back, the conductor, all ‘eeh bonny lass’ Geordie, patted my arm and said: ‘aye, you’ve had a bit of a roundabout trip to Malton haven’t you lass? Make sure ya Dinnie get on the wrong train again, then.’
And so, exactly two hours later I found myself, once again, sprinting towards platform 5 this time hoping to get on the right train.
