The Journey Home
When I woke this morning a thought occurred to me – a rather important thought. Where and when was I supposed to be meeting with the client ? I slid out of the hotel bed with a huge headache, and fired up the netbook computer. Good – it was still connected to the hotel wireless network. I sent an email, and stumbled off towards the shower.
Ten minutes later I emerged and checked the screen – 10am, in a meeting room on the fourth floor, and I could arrive at any time ahead of the meeting. I glanced at my watch – 7:30am. Slow breakfast then!
At breakfast there was no sign of the people I had seen in the bar the previous evening. I grabbed a small plate of fried food, some pastries, and a couple of coffees while trying to wake up – half watching the news being broadcast across the room. New York was apparently about to be battered by the worst winter storms in a generation. I stopped listening when the leader of the political opposition in the UK appeared – Ed Milliband. The BBC interviewer flat out asked him what he was going to do about nobody liking him. He asked in a much nicer way of course – “your personal popularity rating is the worst since Michael Foot in the 1970s”, which means “nobody likes you, we don't like you, and I don't like you”.
After grabbing my coat and bag from the room and checking out, I wandered over to the client office, signed myself in unnoticed, and made my way to the agreed meeting room – where I made another coffee (they have a coffee machine right outside their conference rooms – which sounds like a good idea, until you've had four free coffees in four hours, and are starting to experience time travel side effects).
The next four hours were filled with flipcharts, overhead projectors, more coffee, and circular discussions about anything and everything. Everything ground to a halt early in the afternoon – after working straight through lunch. I said my goodbyes and left the building in a manner Elvis would have been proud of. 10 hours of travelling and a night in a hotel for a 4 hour meeting...
While writing this I'm sitting on the train from Leeds to Birmingham New Street – the first 2 hours of the journey. From Birmingham I head to Reading, and from Reading towards home (at last). The final part of the journey will be in the middle of the commuter rush – not looking forward to that at all. I guess I should pack the netbook away in a minute, and get ready to make the mad dash towards whichever platform my next train will be at (thank the maker for the phone app that gives live train information!)
(Twenty minutes passes)
After struggling from the previous train (where an automatic door insisted it wanted to be shut, and then a herd of ignorant passengers tried to get on the train while people were still trying to get off), I found myself with some time to kill, and a splitting headache. Luckily Birmingham New Street is a big enough station to house a number of high street stores within it's confines – among them a drug store. I must have looked quite the sight – trying to juggle my backpack, open a packet of Nurofen, and and unscrew a bottle of banana and strawberry smoothie while dodging passengers on the concourse.
Short story made even shorter – I am on the train for the next leg of the journey – from Birmingham to Reading (pronounced “redding”, for the US readers). We arrive in about an hour and a half I think – I've already checked twice, and have already forgotten. I guess it's a bit like when somebody asks you the time, and you look at your watch – then if somebody else asks a minute later, you look again. We have all programmed ourselves not to remember time.
I have been digging old TV shows out of the bag to watch along the way – among them “Community” – perhaps the most original, inventive, funny comedy broadcast in years. Guess what – NBC killed it. Idiots. (I think that satisfies the rule about calling somebody an idiot in any post vaguely related to work). The final NBC season – season 5 – has had all manner of cameos – Levar Burton and Nathan Fillion immediately come to mind.
The train has been stopped at Leamington Spa for some time. I wonder what's going on? Maybe the driver has run out of tea in his flask? Maybe it's the wrong kind of damp weather outside. We're moving again. Must have been the tea.
Can you believe I have written 800 words so far about nothing in particular happening? It's a special skill. It must be. I wonder what formal qualifications in “not much at all” would be called? Maybe it would range from “Not much at all”, right the way through to “Absolutely fck all” (which would be the equivalent to a first class honours degree from a top university). Imagine being a professor of Fck All.
Throughout the journey to and from the client site over the last few days, I really have to say a huge thankyou to those that have accompanied me via text messages and email along the way. They know who they are. They are awesome.
I'm shutting down for a while. I have nothing to write about, and there's only so much nothing you can write about.
(an hour passes)
I'm finally home. I was met on the final train platform by our middle daughter, who was on her way home from an after-school club. I've always been envious of other people returning home on the train with people to meet them, and this time I had the little girl shouting “Daddyfrozen pie, chips, and ravioli cooking. A strange mixture, but I'm hungry, and they were the easiest option. I got an earful about not using some of the leftover vegetables too.
It's good to be home though...