© Always Worth Saying 2025, Going Postal
We’re off to London chaperoning; myself, Mrs AWS, and our VVIP, the granddaughter of a Chinese injection-moulded plastics billionaire. Our trip has been disrupted by Storm Floris. Only two trains this day head from as far north as our house to the capital — and, possibly, none coming all the way back, meaning sleeping on the concourse at Euston or, if we’re ‘lucky’, a night in a Premier Inn in Prestonistan. Yuk.
As we creep out of Citadel Station heading south spot on time at 08:48, how goes the weather? The forecast predicts a powerful and disruptive summer windstorm to strike the north of England and Scotland. Inland areas will record gusts of 40–50 mph, with 60–70 mph on higher ground. As we approach Shap Summit, spikes of up to 85 mph are predicted for exposed areas. In the event, the strongest gust recorded was a staggering 134 mph at the summit of Cairn Gorm.
Rail, road, air, and ferry services suffered mass cancellations and closures, with iconic structures such as the Forth and Tyne bridges being shut to vulnerable traffic. Between 22,000 and 50,000 homes lost power. Restoration efforts are challenging. The Royal Edinburgh Military Tattoo is cancelled for the first time in its 75-year history. In better news, numerous Edinburgh Festival Fringe events are called off too. An easyJet flight from London Luton to Inverness returns mid-flight.
No matter. A little Chinese girl, engrossed in her (Chinese secret service?) pink Hello Kitty Huawei phone, must travel the length of England. Can do! How are we faring against the weather? Couldn’t tell you. In the scramble to get places on a train we weren’t booked on, we ended up in unreserved Coach C, and had to sit where we could, together but on opposite sides of the aisle and on different rows.
I’m beside a blank wall rather than a window, with Storm Floris doing its worst out of view. Big fans of Avanti West Coast Pendolinos will now have enough free information to realise where I’m sat. People keen on such things will also realise that the best seat on a train is said to be number 61 — assuming you live in London and are travelling first class on a Eurostar train.
In such circumstances, number 61 is a window seat located in Carriage 1, near the middle and therefore smooth and quiet. The lucky traveller faces forward when travelling from London and has a table and lots of legroom. However, if you don’t live in London, aren’t going to Paris, aren’t on a Eurostar, and not travelling first class, then different rules apply.
How do I know all of this? Via the Man in Seat 61 website, which I don’t like. Why? One reason, and one alone — because it’s modern. At the moment, the proprietor, an excellent chap called Mark Smith, is off on manoeuvres in Turkey. Fair enough. But he’s not doing it in the 1970s or 1980s. The trains aren’t alive with mice. It doesn’t cost £1.50 to go from one end of the country to the other.
© Always Worth Saying 2025, Going Postal
Ankara to Adana doesn’t take a day and a half. No circuses travel the rails and therefore no accompanying lions rest in cages in the baggage car. Sweet tea with a pastry isn’t priced at a reasonable eighth of a penny. Never-changing fares aren’t painted on station walls in giant numbers. No Edmonson tickets are stamped with ‘Torus Ekspresi’. Booooo. And when you arrive somewhere, you can’t sleep in a dormitory for 50p a night. Might as well stay at home and do a bit of chaperoning.
What can also be said with certainty is that aficionados of Avanti West Coast Pendolino trains who are also experts at blindfold three-dimensional chess, will be aware both that I am sat in seat C12 and that C12 is a wrong ’un. Not only beside a panel, so I can’t see anything, but also next to the shop, meaning there’s a lot of comings and goings. And it’s airline-style with no table. As for legroom, who cares? There’s not a lot of me, so I never notice.
Being Mr Invisible-Average helps with the chaperoning and also means such things as train seats are made for someone my size to sit in. However, my new best friend, a stout chap from Wolverhampton, is on the ‘big lad’ side and looks uncomfortable. Plus, his right knee has nowhere to go except into my space. Not to worry, at least we have seats — unlike those sitting on their cases or standing in the vestibules and aisles.
Also, unlike anyone trying their luck in seats C1 or C2, next to the shop and opposite the lady guard’s little sanctuary. The girl in the uniform keeps moving people on to keep those two empty. Hmmm. My unreliable assistant, Ms A I Chat, speculates you can’t sit in seats C1 or C2 on Avanti West Coast Pendolinos because Coach C is used as a shop and a ‘staff lounge’. Those specific seats are therefore out of service for passengers. House points for any below-the-line Puffin who knows better.
If you’re the one keen on trains and three-dimensional blindfold chess, you will already have calculated that our VVIP is sitting in C13. Eeeek. I don’t want to spoil the plot, but nothing unpleasant happened to her, other than having to spend three and a half hours in a confined space with me. By the way, this was a refurbished set with a proper headrest to rest your temple against if you fall asleep, like the old British Rail Mark 2e.
Leaving Preston, a shuffle about allowed Mrs AWS to sit beside our VVIP.
Thundering south, between heads and seats and through other people’s windows, what little I could see of the outside world suggested the weather was blowy rather than gale force, and that the ground was parched rather than lush. Perhaps all this fake news London media nonsense about a drought has some truth to it, as long as you don’t venture too far north. I also noticed a giant building site next to Euston Station, which, presumably, will form the platforms and mega structures of the HS2 extension (HS3?) from Old Oak Common to Central London.
Another bad thing about Carriage C is that it is at the country end of the train and, upon arrival, a long way from the Euston concourse. In better news, we arrive at 12:13, which is bang on time. In better better news, no it isn’t. We were booked on the 07:04, so have arrived more than half an hour late — nicely beyond refund o’clock. A matter that mist wait for when we get home, as duty calls.
Beyond the concourse and outside the terminal, in a kind of food plaza, is the rendezvous point where we hand over our VVIP. After which, no time to linger as we have to get back inside to reserve seats north, as our original service back has been cancelled due to the weather.
They really do want us to use the app. A giant queue engulfs the ticket office and only one counter is serving. An information desk sits to the side. I bother the Cockney chap standing at it. Or rather a misonformation desk. I wanted to book seats on the 15:30, which, in the middle of the previous night, appeared amongst the confusion as still being expected to run.
‘It’s cancelled.’
‘No, it isn’t.’
‘Yes, it is.’
‘No, it isn’t.’
‘They’re all cancelled north of Preston, and they’re all fully booked.’ ‘So there,’ he was dying to add.
Sleeping on the floor at Euston beckoned, while Mrs AWS stayed awake all night looking out for stabby types with expensive trainers and hoodies. Not to worry, we’ll have a wander around London and arrive back in plenty of time for 15:30 — just in case. Who do you believe, the British Rail (mis)information man or a G-P roving correspondent? Find out next time in our next episode, imaginatively provisionally entitled Postcard From London.
To be continued…
© Always Worth Saying 2025
