5th April 2007, 2.59am
It is a clear and flagrant breach of the Trades Description Act that this train should be called a “sleeper”. For one thing there is the noise. It isn’t the noise of the rails that disturbs, but what I assume to be the air conditioning system, without which we would doubtless either roast or freeze. Then there is the constant motion. I am not accustomed to dozing off in a bed which is being gently, and sometimes less gently, rocked from end to end by an unseen hand. The fact that the bed is narrow and short has not of itself been a problem: I cannot sue Great Western because of injuries sustained through falling all of five feet to the floor whilst asleep because the primary precondition has not been met. Therefore it will have to be the Trades Description Act.
We have been killing time in Taunton Station for at least half an hour, probably more, but this has now given me the opportunity to explore the little bag of goodies supplied to us. It’s a bit like Christmas Eve, suddenly and unexpectedly finding a cellophane-wrapped present on our beds, and I immediately unwrapped mine to see what was in it. There is a small pack of First Great Western paper handkerchiefs, which are quite useful. There is a razor, which frankly is not, although I have toyed with the idea of shaving off my right eyebrow just to see the reaction of all the strangers I meet over the next three weeks. Then there was something orange whose identity remained a mystery to me until I put my reading glasses on. “Foam ear plugs” the wrapper told me. I tried them I don’t think that they kept much sound out, but I defy anyone to sleep when they have not one, but two, orifices blocked by foreign bodies.
There is a comb, which could prove useful in emergencies (eg my unshaved eyebrow needs untangling) and a rather neat toothbrush which comes apart to make it smaller – now I know where Robin Thorn got the idea when he decided to fit S & S couplings on the tandem. There is a small tube of Colgate toothpaste (good) and a very small cake of soap, accompanied by something that looks like a brand-new mantle for an old-fashioned Tilley lamp, but which is probably a diminutive flannel. The final four items are sealed foil envelopes, two of them containing Refreshing Wipes, one containing Shoe Shine, and the last containing shaving cream. All if these little gifts come in an attractive blue roll-up velcro-fastened container with zip-up plastic pockets.
We are still at Taunton Staion, and this is bad news. It is getting quite close to the point at which I need to evacuate my bladder and railway companies take a dim view of their lavatories being flushed while the train is at the station. Normally this wouldn’t worry me at all – after all, an emergency is an emergency – but our carriage is being attended to by an efficient and smartly-dressed woman who gives me the impression that in another life she might have been a member of the Gestapo. This is probably completely unfair, but I still don’t feel like having to explain to her that there were no solids amongst whatever it was I just flushed onto the track. This same woman is due to serve me a cup of tea at 7am and I don’t want to do anything to upset her.