The East Coast trainline has become somewhat of a spiritual home to me. The £1.40 bottles of water that, although extortionate, don't exactly give you much of a choice as to go to a different establishment (although the prospect of 'back seat dealings' in a dark, dank back carriage where passengers are playing craps and clicking their fingers to a bassy beat). The odd toilet locks that leave you petrified that someone will walk in on you and your business. Even the plug sockets that don't have an on/off switch which annoys me and my slight OCD hugely. Having suffered a journey up to the Midlands with an annoying woman playing Bollywood at full blast through her laptop speakers (I was unable to engage with the lead character, possibly due to the language gap, but more likely due to a shoddy per-korma-nce), I was hoping for a better return journey.
Naturally, this was not the case. There I was, bright and early at Grantham station waiting for the 14.08. For half an hour, I mulled my coffee. Then, at 5 to two, horrow struck: I needed the loo. I was petrified I'd miss the train but just had to risk it. At five past two, I was out of the loo, and the train was on the platform, so I darted on. Perfect. But all was not right. A man was in my seat.
"sorry pal, think you're in my seat there"
"No, I'm not"
I showed him my ticket
"That's wrong"
"clearly it isn't"
"I'm not moving"
This swung back and forth for a few minutes. Harsh words were exchanged. He was still sitting. I was still standing. Luckily, the ticket inspector arrived.
"This guy is in my seat mate!"
He looked at my ticket.
"You're on the wrong train"
".....ah"
The man sitting down took of his jacket. He made himself comfortable.
I made myself scarce.
Over and out.
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