A late post today, since my paid job isn’t blogging, and I thought I should do what I’m paid for for a change. To be fair, I actually was quite busy today with only a half hour break between 8:45 and 3:45. That’s like slave labour for me. Every Tuesday is going to be like this now…
I’m taking a break from fantasy and reading The Racketeer by John Grisham. If you check my next five TBR list on Fantasy Faction, you’ll see that this book does not feature. But I can explain! I went to Shropshire at the weekend and took Best Served Cold with me (that one is on my TBR list! Yay!) which I read in chunks over the train journey. The problem was, when I got back to Inverness on Sunday evening, I had to wait two hours for the train out again. I had to wait TWO HOURS to go ONE STOP up the line. So I finished BSC and needed something new to read to pass the time. The Grisham was the best of a bad selection at Morrisons, assuming I didn’t want to read erotica with grey covers (I didn’t).
I read mainly fantasy, but I will read pretty much anything if it stands still long enough, as I think I’ve mentioned before. I have read some of the weightier, classic Grishams like The Firm and The Testament, so I felt a little let down by this very slim volume in comparison to such tomes. It’s ticking along quite nicely so far though, and I might read a bit more before bed tonight.
Oh goodness, I’ve just remembered all the train drama. I always seem to have adventures on trains, have you noticed? First there were two pensioner brothers who had very foghorny voices who insisted on blaring out their Scrabble scores in the QUIET COACH. Fair play for bringing something to keep you entertained (they were going from Pitlochry to London) but I consider random number shouting to be “unnecessary noise” and in the Quiet Coach; DAS IST VERBOTEN. An even older man got on in Perth and tried to turf one of the Foghorns out of his seat, claiming it was his. It turned out he had indeed booked that seat number in that carriage…
Foghorn 1: “Gosh, that is the same seat number; you’re right.”
Foghorn 2: “Well, just sit here and wait for the conductor and ask him about it.”
Foghorn 1: “Where are you heading, anyway?”
Old boy: “Inverness.”
Me: “Ah, well that’s your problem: this is the southbound train.”
Old boy: “Oh. Shit.”
When I changed at Edinburgh, chaos ensued. Apparently, while we’d been hurtling southward, half of Scotrail had imploded somehow. There were three trains’ worth of extra people on our train due to cancellations and breakdowns. So it was somewhat crowded. The conductor was trying his best, and taking all the unused reservations off to try and find seats and alternative trains for people, and the majority of passengers were just getting on with it. On arrival at Preston a very rude woman appeared. She had four children and a male friend? Brother? Partner? (I don’t want to assume but they looked like typical Prestonians and I say that having lived there for 20 years) and immediately set about conquering the reserved seats in the name of bolshiness.
She fair barrelled up the gangway and began displacing people with the extremely rude “You’re gonna have to move!” No preamble. No “Excuse me”. I mean, they were her booked seats. They genuinely were. But she didn’t give anyone the opportunity to move, and in some cases they wanted to move but couldn’t because of all the other passengers going up and down the carriage. She ousted the final two in this way, then proceeded to make snidey comments to her man like “I can’t believe people would sit in someone else’s reserved seats!” “Some people are so rude!” and so on. While she was still standing and someone needed to get past, she smiled and apologised to them claiming “Sorry, I know I’m in the way but there are people sitting in my seats and I’m just waiting for them to move!” all sweetness and passive-aggressive light. The two men in her seats were only too happy to move, but made the mistake of trying to explain. They said the train was really busy and they had only been sat there until someone came to claim the seats, and that they did have reserved seats elsewhere but hadn’t been able to get to them because of the crowd. The rude lady then snapped “Well I don’t care! Go find them then! Why are you in my seats? You’re gonna have to move!” All of us who had been crammed in since Edinburgh just couldn’t believe it. I mean, she was obviously entitled to sit in her reserved seats, but you at least start with “Excuse me”, and look apologetic. You don’t start in with bolshy. I would have offered one of the men my seat in compensation, but I had been wedged in myself by then. I later had a lovely vestibule conversation with a lad from Wem, who had been skiing in Manchester (indoor) on my way to Shrewsbury on a packed rush hour train with only two carriages. It was quite warm.
Sorry, blogging interrupted by a new series of The Great British Bake Off. It’s going to be a crazy series, I think. I was just discussing the early favourites with a friend on Facebook when my best friend chipped in “…I used to think you guys were cool.” How rude! It’s funny how serious it gets, though, and then you take a step back and remember it’s only cake.
Anyway, I’m still commenting on the Locke Lamora read along, and frankly I’m a bit disappointed by the number of comments so far. People were so up for it on the forum, but they’re not taking part in discussion and I really feel for Marc who is writing really detailed summaries and bringing some great discussion points.
RIGHT. I am determined to get to be at a reasonable time. See you Friday, folks.