Another Tuesday

I had things I wanted, needed to do. So I called in sick...

I found myself in a cafe next to Peterborough station having a late lunch to make up for a missed breakfast opportunity at Kings Cross caused by morons queuing to visit an imaginary platform.

I was going to get take out but was drawn to look at the TV by a waitress. I see that a plane from Doha has been escorted into Manchester by fighter jets. The news is breaking but it appeared to have already been established that someone had falsely claimed they had a bomb. The waitress tells me:

“That’s why I won’t fly. Something like that always happens.”

“Always?” I asked.

“Yes. Always. Look at that plane in Ukraine and that other one they can’t find”

The cafe was empty. I needed a sit down. I was faintly interested in the news but mostly, the waitress’s comments amused me. I decided to stay.

It took little time to establish that the waitress had never flown and never been abroad. She explained to me that she was hoping to surprise her boy friend later in the year by taking the Eurostar to Paris. I encouraged her but asked why flying would be worse than travelling through a twenty two mile tunnel. Falling through the air or buried alive. Both are pretty rubbish, to me.

She was obsessed with the mentality that leads to someone claiming that they had a bomb on board a plane. I built a strong case for both the approach but also the customer service experience of the person’s fellow passengers:

• It’s far cheaper than going through the rigmarole of paying for the kit to make a proper bomb
• It doesn’t require covertly sourcing the materials to make a proper bomb
• Words are weightless so it’s lighter to carry than a real bomb
• Current Security checks at airports aren’t looking for “spoken words” (except maybe El Al… I hear they are far more thorough than other nation’s airlines)
• From a service perspective, if you were on the plane, which would you prefer? A real bomb or a mentalist’s fake bomb threat?

We continued to talk.

Turns out she is new to Peterborough. She has recently moved from Beaminster. She seemed unimpressed that I have been to Yeovil and know where Bridport is.

“Where are you going?”

“London”, I reply.

“Everyone seems to go to London”

OK. We’re in a cafe next to Peterborough station. I know that some people will be heading North, some may be heading east or west and – clearly – some people will head south to local stations but instinct says that a large proportion of people will be London bound so her surprise surprises me.

“It’s where I live.”

“Oh. Where?”

“Harrow. The North West.”

“Don’t know it. I’ve been to Waterloo. And Kings Cross… … … … And Greenwich”

“I like Greenwich”, I encourage.

“Yeah, it was good. I went to the O2.”

“Oh.”

Back in the late 1990’s I found myself in Mablethorpe in Lincolnshire a couple of times with different people. I was being transported back there. I’d spent an evening talking with some guys who could not get their heads around the fact that I considered myself as living close to the West End but it taking 45-60 minutes to get there. They thought I was crazy. I thought that they were crazy, to. I know I am biased because I am from the city but I am stunned that I still meet people that have never explored their capital city. Maybe - probably - it’s me.

As the news had unfolded on the telly. Well, when I say unfolded, I mean while the BBC repeated the same grainy footage of fighter jets over and over while repeating the same two or three tweets ad nauseum… I had highlighted that the plane was from Qatar and that I hoped to visit sometime soon. We returned to the subject of moving away. Paraphrased, it went something like this:

“You shouldn’t worry about moving away. I mean you will miss your mum and dad and they will miss you. But you have to break the chains and strike out on your own sometime. I’ve no regrets moving to Peterborough. The buses run until midnight. Back home, they’re finished by six.”

By this point she is talking my language. She clearly saw that I have a soft spot for buses. I will admit that I couldn’t resist walking through Peterborough bus station. I still feel a thrill at seeing all the destinations on the boards. The boards inspire such hope and opportunity that they read like poetry: Bourne,Botolph Green, Brotherhouse Bar. Excitement of the unknown and the unloved. Love it!

I digress.

There was something really beautiful about being reassured by a 22 year old stranger that moving away is healthy. I moved out of home before she was born. But on the train back home I realised that at a level she was speaking sense. That whilst I don’t think she comprehended or cared where I am going, where I have been or the recent dilemma I have had, she hit really the nail on the head and vindicated the decision that I have made.

Intentional or unintentional? I dunno. I’d guess the latter.

I don’t even know her name but it was one of the best thirty minutes of the year so far.

As I left, I told her that she must make the effort to visit Paris and that her idea of taking her boyfriend to see Pont de l’Archeveche was really romantic. She said she would but I swear that – in her eyes - she was weighing up the risks involved of travelling through a 22 mile long tunnel and being buried alive.