Of all the tales that have been recorded here, the two stories that seem to have brought forth the most laughs are the infamous tale of me, the missing dog and an 800 euro reward: http://melodystravellingpen.blogspot.com/2010/08/mystery-of-missing-dog-and-800-euro.html
And the episode with the train toilet, namely me with my pants round my ankles and the door sliding open to a packed train.
http://melodystravellingpen.blogspot.com/2011/09/essex-girls-guide-to-city-life.html
Since I have avoided small dogs and promises of large rewards ever since, I thankfully have no similar stories to share from that perspective. But trains are another matter. Although I have indeed learnt my lesson and now LOCK the door in public places, trains are funny old things where etiquette seems to go out the window…
London trains I have decided, are like the ancient gods of Greece and Rome, omniscient with the power to make or break your day, (or your life) your best interests not being their primary concern-
As flies to wanton boys are we to th' gods,
They kill us for their sport
Will the train get to Liverpool Street? Will there be signal failure at Hackney downs again? Only the Gods can know. What you can be sure of as a passenger on National Rail, is that if the temperature fluctuates above or below average by 5 degrees or more, chaos shall ensue. I have seen ‘hot’ weather make train lines apparently melt, snow bringing trains to a standstill within 30 seconds of the first fallen snow flake as only British snow can do, and even, ladies and gentleman rain. Yes, rain- this might be England, and yes its rains a lot- but National Rail are not prepared for rain. Getting to and from work is a game for the gods, hit and miss. You stand on the platform and leave your fate in the hands of the train Lords.
Romford- Liverpool St.
I have the pleasure of getting the early train where you’ll find the distinct difference being that before 7am it’s full of builders, and after 8am its full of suits.
Whatever time it is, the morning train is rather unsociable, more so than tube where the rule of thumb is that you can be jammed in someone’s armpit but you must still pretend that you are a solitary traveler, no eye contact and definitely no talking to eachother, otherwise fellow commuters will stare at you like you’re on day release. The morning train is pretty much a snooze cabin, with fellow passengers dribbling, snoring, and earphones playing Ndubs far too loudly. The guy sitting opposite me one particular morning had his hood up on a paint stained jumper, eyes rolled in the back of his head in a manner that made me unsure whether he was dead rather than sleeping, his legs flapping open. There was a large hole in his crotch. And he was wearing a very flimsy pair of pants. Lovely. I felt my golden grahams debating whether to stay in my stomach.
I stared at him (his face not his crotch) and wondered- did he not see this slight mishap when he got dressed?? Yes it’s the 6.48am train, yes its dark, its cold- we’re on the same train so I know this- but I have managed to dress myself in a way that doesn’t have me confused with a homeless person. I don’t have a hole in my pants.
Perhaps not. I did however go to work the following morning with my skirt on inside out.
I had dressed and stumbled down towards the coffee machine at around 6.15 waking up my brother’s girlfriend, who due to the size and logistics of our house, was asleep in the conservatory with my brother. (My mother keeps waiting for one of us to move out, but it’s not quite going to plan.)
“Babe you’ve got your skirt on inside out.” She tells me helpfully, never grumpy despite the fact I always seem to crash around and wake her up each morning. I was so tired I took it off there and then in the middle of the kitchen turned it outside in and put it back on.
It wasn’t until I was halfway to work did a kind-looking lady whisper in my ear at Holborn, “Darling, I think you skirt is inside out- I can see the label.”
Oh. In my sleepy stupor I had taken my skirt off, turned it through twice, and then got all the way to London before somebody told me. Not bad considering it was only 7.38am.
Liverpool Street- Southend
Two guys sit next in the seats next to me. Its Thursday evening, I’m on my way out of London after a gig. This pair are donned up in suits with one of them holding a bag of Burger King, both smelling of beer and jack Daniels; this being the general Thursday night Liverpool Street-look.
“What the fuck are on your feet mate?”
The boy with the burger points to his friend’s feet, feet that are sporting a rather impressive pair of blue, clean, suede loafers.
“Oi, these cost a fucking monkey I’ll have you know.”
I don’t know how much this is, but I’m going to guess at his indignant tone that a monkey is a fair amount for a pair of suede loafers.
“I don’t care if they were a fucking donkey mate, they’re ponce shoes.”
I wonder what profile he got this gem of information from.
“What you talking about? These are the bollocks these are.”
They’re definitely peeled of something’s bollocks judging by the texture, and before burger boy clocks this witty connection, blue shoes remembers his hunger and clasps his stomach.
“I will give you FIVE pounds for that burger, right here right now.”
Considering inflation levels, the shit economy and the fact a large rubbery burger from Burger King is about a fiver anyway, this isn’t a good deal.
“No” says the other, holding the burger in both hands, but not taking a bite, obviously interested to see where this bargaining will go. Mayo and lettuce are starting to drip out.
“A fucking fiver- come on mate, I’m Hank Marvin.”
The burger boy smiles and says slowly- “I’ll swap the burger.”
“For what?”
“I’ll swap you the burger for the shoes.”
We all look down at the blue suede shoes. This just got interesting.
“No mate no, I can’t do that.” blue shoes boy is shaking his head, his eyes not leaving the burger which to be honest, seems to be falling apart anyway, loosing value by the second in my opinion, but beer hunger has been known to make us all eat stranger things than a cold burger..
The deliberation is still going on by the time the train reaches Romford, and I’m half tempted to stay on for a few more stops as blue shoes is genuinely getting closer to giving in, offering a staggering 20 pounds sterling for the burger, burger boy still holding out for the loafers. I leave them bartering, the burger no doubt stone cold anyway, walking home wishing I had bought the meal myself to make tidy profit.
London Victoria- Edinburgh
Luka boy as he was fondly named at uni due to the fact there was a Luka girl and a Luka boy in our halls of residence, is a truly original human being that cannot be described, but only shown to you. Everybody in the entire university knew Luka boy, and although no doubt popular, I do remember being hesitant on my first evening in halls thinking it was a possibility that his strange Bulgarian might be a little unhinged. He can be slightly disarming the first time you meet him- we always say that you have to ‘get’ Luka, otherwise you just think he’s from another planet.
He already had a degree in drama when I met him, and had among other acting credits, played a rapist in a BBC Crime Watch re-enactment, before studying for a degree in European studies when I met him at Royal Holloway, then onto a Masters in Islamic studies in Edinburgh. His mother was a brain surgeon working for the Red Cross in all sorts of dangerous countries that Luka seemed to get dragged to every summer holidays, his father owning a factory that made optical lenses for –among other things- sniper guns. (An interesting marriage combo.) His love for women was old fashioned in his genuine awe for the female form, but it was mixed with outrageous lines and language which likened him to Borat rather than Cassanova. Luka boy is the only guy I know that can say the following and somehow get away with it being charming; “Melody, your boobs are like stars from the Star Wars galaxy.”
He has diplomatic immunity, is a qualified masseuse, speaks three languages and is half Italian, this being a fact he only realized in our second year of uni to his utmost horror. He accused us of blasphemy when we explained that with his mother being Italian, he was consequently half Italian, regardless of where he was born and grew up.
“I am Bulgarian he cried.” beating his chest indignantly. Bulgarians have strange and wonderful customs and throw the best parties. Going to the Bulgarian student’s birthday gatherings saw banquets of fresh fruit laden on the tables, unlimited liquor and candles in every room. The only thing you need to watch out for is the Rakia. Some sort of alcohol made from grapes, it strips paint and rots liver, Luka turning up with several home-made bottles one night that his father made which left me with alcoholic poising so severe that after a Friday session I was still being violently sick on Monday morning, along with strange side effects such as my pierced ears closed up and my hair stopped growing. I couldn’t even smell alcohol for two and a half months after that and I have never experienced memory loss like it since…
That’s not even the half of it. Luka with cross mountains for you, swim oceans for you, shower you with complements, all you have to do is tie him down to a map coordinate. You never quite know where this guy could be at any given moment, trekking through the mountains of Scotland gathering research on his latest PHD thesis titled ‘Muslim women in Scotland,’ or popping down to London in a rented car for one night before visiting pals in Oxford, although you’ll never get an answer out of him as to what he’s doing or where he’s staying and you’re not even sure that he has a driving license.
So me and my amiga Kelly jumped on a train one Friday afternoon for a long weekend to Edinburgh to visit the Legend that is Luka boy. I had never been to Scotland before, I’m not sure I’d ever been north of London when it comes to traveling around England in all honesty- my geography is that if you’re not a Londoner, you’re a northerner. And then there’s Scotland.
These trains definitely beat the tin carriages that crawl into Liverpool Street through the dregs of east London and Stratford. There were tables and seat numbers and cushions. We piled on with our holdals, beer, wine and chocolate, not taking notice of seat numbers per se- and proceeded to gossip and giggle and generally annoy all other passengers until a thought struck us. We immediately called Luka.
“Luka, do they use Euros in Scotland?? We didn’t change up any money!”
There is a sigh on the other end of the line as he informs exasperatedly that no, we don’t need Euros. We call him back 45 seconds later.
“Luka- is it going to cost us more to use our phones in Scotland??
Oh my God, girls, iz the same gaad damn caaantry!” (Think compare the merkat.com but two octaves lower for the full effect.)
We take Lukas screeching in jest, as it’s a miracle to get him on the phone, especially twice in a row. It was always going to be a risk visiting Luka boy as since you never quite know where he is, it was just as likely we could have got on a train only to find out that he was nowhere near Scotland when we arrived, going off to Lithuania for work experience as was indeed the case last summer. (God knows what type of work experience they offer in Lithuania..)
On the train on our little adventure we stop at York, where an overweight Scottish woman with a large pram clambers on with her very loud mother and aunt. The woman and the toddler smeared in chocolate are the only ones with tickets- the mother an aunt fussing like clucking hens are being supposedly helpful although they take up more room than the luggage. It would seem I was sitting in this woman’s seat from the daggers being stared in my direction, (why do people get more aggressive the further north you go?) but decided not to worry as the seat opposite me was empty.
I suddenly notice that the train has begun to move away from the station. The women start squawking “but we’ve got to get off! The cars on a meter!” -the next stop is Newcastle. Me and Kelly think this is hilarious, but as the larger of the two women bundle down the isle towards the driver, she stops at my chair and says in a tone identical to the Scottish caretaker in the Simpsons, her ‘R’s rolling and hissing-
“Yourrrr sitting in the wrrrrrong seat!”
The weekend doesn’t not disappoint, involving little sleep, champagne, cocktail bars and Luka boys unbeatable generosity and hospitality, managing to make it through the weekend without upsetting too many more Scots, only upsetting Luka’s Nigerian house mate. The accent throws me considering its Nigerian with a firm twang of Scottish- calling everybody ‘pal,’ ‘ey pal’ with a voice deep like a Braveheart warrior.
“Your English is very good.” I tell him, “Where did you learn it?”
“Is she kidding me?” He says, eyebrows raised looking at Luka, then at me- He’s very tall and so bends down so we’re at eye level. “We speak English in Nigera!”
I give up.
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