How was your Christmas? Did you see Father Christmas?
Did you get the gifts you wanted?
Did you have any unusual presents?
You may well have had a radio controlled lizard as Amazon apparently sold out.
Perhaps you had a gift voucher for an outdoor sauna in the fog, with the opportunity to sit in a barrel of cold water or thrash yourself with branches.
Train sets are always popular in a variety of sizes…
Especially one that goes with your new Lego set
Or maybe you had something unusual…
…such as a sarcophagus…
What was the most unusual present you gave or received?
Luckily I had Elf to help and I’m not going overboard with presents this year.
I am going away tomorrow morning, time to let the blog unwind…
The worst travel weekend of the year?
Whether staying home, going away or avoiding Christmas all together, cards are probably going to be involved. Plenty of people have ceased to send them, especially with the cost of postage. But it is nice to get them. A lot of stress is involved. Are you brave enough to stick to your resolution not to send ANY or do you feel guilty when your ninety year old aunt sends you one? Have you arrived at work, your first Christmas at that job and realised everyone has brought cards and gifts in. Do you monitor incoming cards, save last year’s and make a list of the deserving. You could be ruthless and cut out people you never see or want to see again, hopefully they will stop sending as well.
Did you post your cards and parcels on time? Will you panic and take out a mortgage to buy first class stamps or hope that the recipients will blame the post office when they get cards on the third of January.
Another strange custom is giving cards to neighbours who you see anyway. Though at this time of year it’s too dark to see anybody or they are all rushing round doing Christmassy things. Actually putting cards through doors is fraught with difficulty. If you live in a country with post boxes by the road you miss the fun of venturing up neighbours’ front paths or trying to gain access to their block of flats. This is the only time you get to see what lies behind the high hedge, or peep through a front window. But the aim is to post the card and get away before the neighbour spots you, thus avoiding having to engage in conversation. When you get to the front door you wonder how the postman copes with those awful bristles that trap your hand in the letterbox. If you are really unlucky you will be inches from the door when it suddenly opens and three dogs jump on you, excited to be going out for their walk. Perhaps you can’t find the front door, or it’s a corner house and you can’t work out where the gate is let alone the front door. Then you have to find number ten down the end of the road and post a card on behalf of your elderly neighbour. You don’t know the people and nobody at that end of the road seems to have numbers on their door… Good luck with your card rounds…
Whatever you are doing, enjoy the rest of the year. Who can believe we have a quarter of a century coming soon!
Stuck for gift ideas? Why not give them an interesting model that’s easy to make.
Or something hand knitted, you needn’t let on who actually knitted it.
For the person who’s got everything, a new gadget.
Christmas is a time for old friends to get together...
…so have a relaxing day, no need to be formal.
Just chill out.
But lots of people still like to bake and get ready … overheard on the bus, a great grandmother and her daughter chatting… ‘I’ve put the Christmas cake mixture on top of the wardrobe because of the mice, but you’ll have to get it down.’ ‘Will I need two arms, because I’ve only got one working.’
If you can’t face visitors for Christmas, just pretend you’re going on a skiing holiday and post a few pictures on Facebook.
Don’t forget to make sure your elf stays warm.
But be careful in the kitchen.
Don’t forget to post lots of pictures of your home on social media or sneak a few pictures of other people’s Christmas trees.
And finally, if Father Christmas is late, it could be because the reindeers are stuck in traffic.
Debby paused with the kettle in her hand. She had seen a flash of red in her smart grey and white kitchen. There it was again, she must hurry up and make that appointment at Specsavers. She took her glasses off, polished the lenses then put them on again, only to see a flash of green and red. Blinking she looked around the kitchen and that was when she saw it, sitting on the mug shelf, one of those ghastly elves that parents moved around the house in December to spy on their children. Now she had her own Elf on the Shelf, but how on earth did it get there, she had taken a bone china mug down seconds ago to make her tea and it wasn’t there then. They had baskets full of them at the garden centre, but she hadn’t bought one. Her grandsons hadn’t been here for a week and it was hardly likely the girls next door had sneaked in when they came to retrieve their netball from the back garden. Well he might as well stay up there till Fergus and Hamish came round tomorrow, she would tell them the elf was watching over to make sure they behaved. Not much hope of that working, but worth a try. She wasn’t allowed to call them naughty boys, according to her daughter they just did naughty things occasionally, especially when she dumped them round at Debby’s. Rather ironic that Debby had been delighted to have a daughter, easier than bringing up boys she assumed and not thinking that a daughter might produce boys she would have to get involved with.
As she sat and relaxed with a cup of tea in the lounge she could not believe what she saw when she looked up from her newspaper. The elf was on top of the curtain rail. Perhaps she needed a brain scan as well as an eye test. Or was she an unknowing participant in a reality television show, her reactions being filmed, but who could have sneaked in here ahead of her. She could not reach the elf to see if it was battery operated. The best thing to do was go in the other room and catch up with her emails and other stuff on the computer, maybe look up elves or practical jokes.
The only practical joke was played by the elf as he suddenly leapt onto the screen from behind. This time Debby could see him all too clearly, not a stuffed toy, or battery operated. His eyes blinked, his lips parted and his cheeks blushed pink as he chuckled in a tiny voice.
‘Hello, what’s your name?’
Now she was really going mad, talking to him, did he say Alf or Elf? Before she could say anything else to him he leapt down and used the desk lamp cable like a zip wire. She soon lost sight of him. This was worse than having a mouse in the house, far creepier with no idea where he might pop up next and who did one report infestations, elfinfestations to?
Debby started looking up myths and history of elves, but could not believe she was seriously considering that elves were as real as any other creature on the planet, but where did any myth originate from, a kernel of truth surely. She imagined herself being on an intelligent Radio 4 programme, the first person to discover a live elf. Debby did not see him again that evening and carried on with her normal routine; perhaps she had imagined it all.
When she woke up in the morning and saw Alf Elf sitting on the pillow she stifled a scream. Too close for comfort. Debby shook herself and recalled she had once imagined being a naturalist; she should observe not frighten the poor little chap away, though he did not look scared at all. How did one get hold of a scientist, that one on her favourite radio programme perhaps. But she had a sinking feeling as reality struck. How on earth would she explain to her daughter, she would think she had early onset dementia.
Everything was ready for the grandsons’ visit, breakables put away, the least annoying toys out and she had read the instructions for the junior Christmas decoration creating kit. All that was left was to explain about the elf, would her grandsons be excited, impressed…
‘Bye Mummy’
‘Love you.’
Why did modern parents have to say that every time they went out the door, she was only leaving them for two hours thought Debby.
‘Hamish, Fergus, I have a really big surprise for you today, well not big, very small actually…’
They weren’t listening and had already disappeared to search for the Lego. It wasn’t long before she heard the familiar arguments.
‘I had that piece first.’
’Granny, he pulled my head off.’
Where was the elf, she was suddenly worried for the poor little chap’s safety. She crept along the hall, into the dining room, no sign of Alf, then into her little sun lounge, the only room where Lego was allowed. And there he was, playing Lego with the boys, who were so fascinated they had stopped arguing.
‘Granny, you’ve got a real elf, I’ve never seen a live one’ said Hamish.
‘I told you elves were real’ said Fergus.
‘Be very gentle with him, he’s so small.’
‘Can I take him for Show and Tell?’
‘Oh no, I think school would be far too scary for him, in fact I think we better keep him secret.’
’You don’t have to walk all the way back up, we can get the Noddy Train, but I thought you liked walking?’
John’s parents and his children all looked relieved.
‘We aren’t as young as we were and what with my knee and your father’s hip…’
‘And this bitter wind coming straight off the sea’ added John’s father.
‘Can we still have hot chocolate Daddy?’
‘That’s usually the bribery to get them back up to the café’ said John.
‘I think we all need hot chocolate,’ said his mother ‘I hope that café is still open.’
‘With marshmallows and cream?’ said Johnny Junior.
‘And a cake’ added his sister.
‘We must not spoil your appetites for that delicious dinner your Mummy is cooking for us.’
‘All that lovely sea air has sharpened our appetites’ said their grandfather, wrapping his scarf tighter.
Squeezed in one of the little carriages of the road train everyone brightened up and John’s mother recalled his favourite book.
‘I bought it at a jumble sale, The Runaway Train. I had to read it over and over to your Daddy. The train was meant to take all the office workers up to London on Monday morning, but the train was fed up with the same old journey every day and decided to go to the seaside instead. The passengers didn’t notice what was happening at first, too busy reading their newspapers. That was long before mobile phones were invented and everybody read great big newspapers. Then a few people looked at their watches, glanced out the window and wondered why they were seeing cows in the field instead of Clapham Junction! Soon all the passengers were muttering to each other as the train went faster and faster. The sky was blue, the sun was shining and they passed farms and cottages and hills. Nobody was sure what to do, one man pulled the communication cord with the notice that said emergency use only, but the train did not slow down.
‘Oh that would be fun,’ squealed the children ‘what happened in the end?’
‘Gradually the train slowed down and one of the passengers said Good Heavens, I can see the sea! Soon the train came to a halt in a lovely little station with flower tubs. Everyone got off to see what had happened and a very important and cross looking man marched along the platform to the driver’s cab, but there was no driver. They all stood on the platform scratching their heads and mumbling about getting to the office. Then someone started laughing and pointing to golden sands and the glittering sea… We will never get to work on time so let’s go to the beach instead.
Gradually they all wandered onto the beach and some took off their shoes, rolled up their trousers and started paddling, while others went to buy ice creams and fish and chips.
After a fantastic day, with everyone having fun and agreeing it was much better than going to work, they thought it must be time to go home. At the station the engine had turned itself around on the turntable and was steaming up so they got on board…’
‘Have you still got that book Daddy?’
‘No, that was a long time ago, but maybe that’s why I always wanted to live at the seaside and not work in an office.’
As the road train trundled up towards the café Johnny Junior said ‘Maybe this train is fed up with never going anywhere except back and forth to the beach, maybe it wants to go to London.’
They all laughed as the train drew up by the café and the driver climbed out of his cab to see if anyone needed help getting out. But before John had even opened the door of their carriage, the train started moving again, faster and faster. The last thing the family saw was a surprised look on the driver’s face as he tried to run after the train, but it was going much too fast.
‘Hurrah said,’ Johnny Junior ‘I told you the train was fed up, we’re going on an adventure.’
‘Can’t you do something John.’
‘Don’t worry mother, just a technical hitch, the battery will run down soon and the driver will have called for a mechanic.’
‘When can I have my hot chocolate Daddy?’
They drove down a pleasant avenue with pretty gardens and a few people waved to them. The children waved back. Then the Noddy Train turned right onto a busy road on a steep hill. As the train headed downhill they went faster and faster. Horns were tooting and they heard a siren in the distance. Even little Johnny was beginning to feel scared.
‘And finally tonight police are still searching for a seaside road train, known locally as the Noddy Train and apparently hijacked from a local beauty spot. Our reporter spoke to the shocked driver.’
‘I had just alighted from the train to help a disabled passenger disembark when it started moving. I had left the brakes on, it was on level ground and nobody had got into my cab. I tried to get back to my cab, but it was going much faster than it is capable of. None of this makes sense. Not a single passenger had managed to alight.’
‘Can you reassure family and friends that the passengers will be safe?’
‘No.’
‘Hmm, back to the newsroom to see if there is any update.’
‘The last sighting was junction 67 of the motorway an hour ago. Police are sure there will be drivers who have captured images on their dash cams. In the meantime there is a helpline if you are worried about relatives who may be on board.’
Be careful what you say, the gods are always listening.
‘Don’t come out again in this awful weather, I don’t need a lift, it’s much quicker on the train.’
It is March 2020, we are about to go into lockdown, but at Southampton Hospital it’s like entering a busy airport terminal with shops and a huge Costa Coffee and other eateries. The only precautions against the new ‘Corona Virus’ are instructions to use hand gel. We and I have been visiting my husband every day.
Now, on a miserable wet late afternoon I manage to find the right bus to the station and saunter in looking around for a window with a human being behind it, so I don’t have to bother with a ticket machine. An androgenous person in a uniform approaches, I wasn’t expecting a welcome party.
‘Can I help you?’
‘I just want a single to Bournemouth.’
‘There are no trains to Bournemouth.’
‘WHAT!’
‘Tree on the line.’
‘So when might there be a train?’
‘Not sure, do you still want to go to Bournemouth?’
‘YES.’
Luckily the platform west has a café and waiting area, now full of grumpy commuters. I am not there long when there is a sudden exodus to the exit, I follow them as they all pile onto a double decker bus, asking if it’s going to Bournemouth. No one actually says no so I rush upstairs and grab the last seat. It is dark and still raining, the windows immediately mist up. If this ‘Corona Virus’ really is so infectious, this is when I’m going to catch it.
I can’t see a thing, no idea where we are, but presumably on the motorway. After a good hour the lights of Bournemouth appear. The train journey takes only 28 minutes if you get a fast train, a fast train being one that mainly stops where I want to go.
There are many good reasons for going by train, keeping traffic off the roads, enjoying a faster smooth journey, looking at the scenery and into people’s back gardens… and of course people watching and eavesdropping.
Autumn 2024 and we are leaving the Isle of Wight. Our lovely little B&B is only minutes from the ferry. This time we have looked on line to check if the trains are running smoothly. They aren’t, it’s Sunday engineering works.
At Lymington we disembark and have plenty of time to file out to the car park and get on a comfortable replacement bus which leaves at exactly the same time as the train would have done. We enjoy a pleasant ride.
At Brockenhurst all was not going well. Confused people were hanging around outside the station waiting their turn to consult a chap with a clipboard and a phone. His jacket says ‘Bus Replacement Service Director’ or some such words. Also ‘on duty’ was a fed up South West Trains chap who wandered off at intervals and returned to make remarks such as ‘Don’t travel on a Sunday, I don’t know what they’re playing at’ and ‘Tell your friends Not to travel next Sunday.’ A young woman in a light blue tabard was trying to be helpful. These light blue people don’t seem to actually belong to the railways; at Bournemouth I had wondered if they were students on work experience as they were very young. I think they might be employed to pass on information, give stress counselling and to take the pressure off other staff.
In the meantime the Replacement Director was doing a grand job in an impossible situation with passengers going in different directions and not enough buses. He promised he would get us taxis if there were not enough bus seats. At one stage a coach turned up already full, turned round in the car park and looked like it was going straight back out again. The Director suddenly grabbed an elderly lady by the arm, frog marched her over to the coach and returned empty handed to address the crowd.
‘I know you’re all going to hate me, but that lady was traveling alone and had been waiting a while to get to Southampton, so I took an executive decision to put her in the only empty seat.’
We couldn’t argue with that and nobody did. We gradually herded ourselves into groups according to destination. A few taxis turned up and some left as The Director remembered who had been waiting longest. In the meantime more passengers drifted in or were dropped off by loved ones expecting to say farewell to them.
A black van with no windows turned up and our Bournemouth group was summoned forward, surely we were not going to be piled in the back of a van like prisoners? It turned out to be a luxury mini bus with tinted windows and curtains. There then followed a tour of the whole of the New Forest as we visited every tiny rural station and halt, seemingly only accessed by narrow winding lanes. At each one we dropped off or picked up someone. It was more than an hour before we arrived at Bournemouth station. The train journey takes 26 minutes. We got home safely, but had not even glimpsed a train all day, let alone been on one.
Did I venture on to a train ever again? Yes, but that’s for another episode…
‘Once we get to Waterloo we’re on the home run, we can relax and have lunch.’
How many times have I stood looking at the large departures board at London Waterloo? Generations of my family commuted up to Waterloo along with hordes of fellow office workers long before working from home was thought of. The last London terminus to have steam trains, they were still running when we lived in Farnborough in the early sixties. Nothing can ever beat sitting in a train as it builds up steam and leaves the station and what fun being totally enveloped in smoke as you walk to school over the railway bridge.
Now as I stared up at the board to check train times before we sauntered off to find lunch, I wondered if it was the board or my brain that had become jumbled up. Nothing made sense, though the words cancelled and delayed seemed to feature rather a lot. I suggested we go to the information desk.
‘When is the next train for Bournemouth?’
‘No idea what’s going on, signal failure at Winchester, you best get straight on the next train.’
‘Have we got time?’
A bloke standing beside us said ‘Don’t worry, you’ve got time, I’m the driver.’
We got on the South West train and off we went, but at Southampton we stopped and didn’t start again. We sat there for a while, chatting to someone who had just flown into the country to go and see her dying sister in Bournemouth hospital. We were apparently waiting for a driver – after rail mishaps to come we soon learned that any rail problems result in drivers everywhere being in the wrong place. Each message over the Tannoy contradicted the previous one. We were told this train was terminating and we all got off. At least we could have a comfort break. Train toilets are a subject for another time, preferably when you’re not eating your dinner. Then a message of hope for some of us, the next train was for Bournemouth only, hurrah. It was a ‘Cross Country’ not conjured up especially for us, just happened to be passing through on its normal route. And what of the other poor souls who needed to go to the other stations along the way? I don’t know.
When my sister came over from Australia for a long holiday I had suggested a trip by train and ferry to the Isle of Wight as it is pleasant and easy, all went well when I did the same trip last year with my friend. Bournemouth to Brockenhurst in the New Forest, change to the dear little train that just goes back and forth to Lymington Pier then saunter on to the ferry to Yarmouth, Isle of Wight. We had booked three nights at a B&B yards from the little ferry terminal.
At Bournemouth station that morning all was chaos, car on the level crossing at Brockenhurst, how long does it take to tow a car off a railway line? All day perhaps judging by what lay ahead. The platform was full of staff, they didn’t know what was going on, but they were doing their best to keep up our morale or their own. Then a train appeared, we got on with our wheelie cases, found a seat then heard the announcement ‘This train is for Southampton only.’ We got off again.
A train did come along and we arrived at Brockenhurst where the platform was full of confused passengers wanting to go up to London or down to Weymouth. We went over to the empty platform to check if the train sitting there was for Lymington, it was and we jumped on quickly, but it didn’t move. It was waiting for a driver. We sat and sat, no more messages came.
Then thinking outside of the box I suggested we just get off the train, trek back over the bridge to the information office and ask what was going on. They had no idea and I proposed Plan B, just walk out of the station and get a taxi to Lymington Pier. Another passenger had already found one and was happy to share. I am still not convinced that this was a genuine taxi, I could see no evidence and the driver wanted cash only, £18. The other passenger was a local who needed to get back to his house in Lymington and I offered him a free ride, just glad that I always carry real money. He insisted on giving me a ten pound note, so we had made a bit of a profit. Whether or not it was a genuine taxi, he did take us to the right place. We relaxed at the little coffee shop in the tiny terminal while we waited for the ferry. The ferry is a delight, you just saunter up the gangway in minutes, climb a few stairs and sit in comfort at the front soothed by the smooth journey across the Solent.
You will have to wait to find out if we ever returned home from that trip, but if I mention we had to come back on a Sunday, some of you might guess.
Times and Tides of a Beachwriter 