Near death on the A303 [by Ian]
So here I am, at Salisbury train station on a miserable Sunday afternoon. Should be home by 6pm..
Ksssshhhhhhhhhhhh!!!!!!!! We regret to inform you that the 3.27 from platform 2 will terminate at Andover....from there a coach service will be provided to transport you to Basingstoke where you will transfer to kssssshhhhhhhhh!!!!!!!! another coach on to Woking where normal ksssssshhhhhhhhhhhh!!!!! will be resumed.
Oh god bless me and save me from another Sunday afternoon, courtesy of our wonderful rail services.
Andover welcomes us with a sarcastic crack of thunder, and the heavens drench us again as we disembark into the gloomy, drizzly and windswept carpark.Two coaches await, and there is fairly polite jostling for position in the queue.
Foolishly, I'm heartened by the good humour of my fellow victims. Then we see him; the driver. Certainly of pensionable age, large of gut, red of face and possessed of an unnerving squint. Someone asks him : "How long 'til we arrive at Basingstoke?",.. he smiles crookedly and shouts "Well we ain't even left yet 'ave we love?!" .. We; the ticket purchasing public are not impressed by this, and shuffle uncertainly but uncomplaining onto the coach.
We eventually weave our way through the industrial nether regions of the town and find our way onto the A303 North, and I'm a little concerned that the driver seems heavy on the brakes at times.
I have fond memories of the old A303, strangely enough. It's the main route north and south out of my home town , and reminds me of all the favourite journeys I've made in my 42 years.
I trudged up here on the way to a school friends farm, so that we could nick his dads shotgun and blow the living daylights out of innocent furry creatures. We raced bastardised motorbikes in the field which ran alongside; hoping to beat the posers in their souped up Ford Capri's, and the lorry drivers who grinned and flicked the V's. I hitched to Heathrow along here when I first left the country, and screamed the guts out of my Honda 90 (oh god, how embarrassing) on my way to see my first proper girlfriend; a wonderful young lady who with verve and gusto relieved me of my innocence - startling a new-born foal in the paddock behind the garden shed.
So here I am, sitting at the front of the coach - not asleep, but enjoying these memories when there's a jolt. I look up and can see the back of the drivers head in front of me. He appears to be peering around a corner, only I can't see it because the front windscreen is completely steamed up! I realise that he's fallen asleep, and the coach is veering towards the ditch to our left.I scream and bash the back of his seat, he sits bolt upright and slams his foot on the brakes and we all lurch forward like it's a nightmare big dipper.The coach skids and slides along the slick road surface and once again my life flashes (much quicker this time) before me. We come to a dead stop, and for a moment there is complete silence. There is mumbling and shuffling, and retrieving of belongings from the floor of the coach and other people's laps. The driver coughs and standing up says " I'm very sorry about that folks, terrible conditions out there", and restarts the engine.
Not one person speaks but one old lady who says quietly from the back "I'm going to write to my MP about this".
It is 8.30 pm by the time I arrive at my local station, and my marvellous wife picks me up.
Have I since complained to South West Trains? Guess..
* * *
Ian is of a certain age when dealing with ear-hair can seem too much of a priority. He would secretly like to wear a cardigan and slippers. He thinks writing is the new black.
Ksssshhhhhhhhhhhh!!!!!!!! We regret to inform you that the 3.27 from platform 2 will terminate at Andover....from there a coach service will be provided to transport you to Basingstoke where you will transfer to kssssshhhhhhhhh!!!!!!!! another coach on to Woking where normal ksssssshhhhhhhhhhhh!!!!! will be resumed.
Oh god bless me and save me from another Sunday afternoon, courtesy of our wonderful rail services.
Andover welcomes us with a sarcastic crack of thunder, and the heavens drench us again as we disembark into the gloomy, drizzly and windswept carpark.Two coaches await, and there is fairly polite jostling for position in the queue.
Foolishly, I'm heartened by the good humour of my fellow victims. Then we see him; the driver. Certainly of pensionable age, large of gut, red of face and possessed of an unnerving squint. Someone asks him : "How long 'til we arrive at Basingstoke?",.. he smiles crookedly and shouts "Well we ain't even left yet 'ave we love?!" .. We; the ticket purchasing public are not impressed by this, and shuffle uncertainly but uncomplaining onto the coach.
We eventually weave our way through the industrial nether regions of the town and find our way onto the A303 North, and I'm a little concerned that the driver seems heavy on the brakes at times.
I have fond memories of the old A303, strangely enough. It's the main route north and south out of my home town , and reminds me of all the favourite journeys I've made in my 42 years.
I trudged up here on the way to a school friends farm, so that we could nick his dads shotgun and blow the living daylights out of innocent furry creatures. We raced bastardised motorbikes in the field which ran alongside; hoping to beat the posers in their souped up Ford Capri's, and the lorry drivers who grinned and flicked the V's. I hitched to Heathrow along here when I first left the country, and screamed the guts out of my Honda 90 (oh god, how embarrassing) on my way to see my first proper girlfriend; a wonderful young lady who with verve and gusto relieved me of my innocence - startling a new-born foal in the paddock behind the garden shed.
So here I am, sitting at the front of the coach - not asleep, but enjoying these memories when there's a jolt. I look up and can see the back of the drivers head in front of me. He appears to be peering around a corner, only I can't see it because the front windscreen is completely steamed up! I realise that he's fallen asleep, and the coach is veering towards the ditch to our left.I scream and bash the back of his seat, he sits bolt upright and slams his foot on the brakes and we all lurch forward like it's a nightmare big dipper.The coach skids and slides along the slick road surface and once again my life flashes (much quicker this time) before me. We come to a dead stop, and for a moment there is complete silence. There is mumbling and shuffling, and retrieving of belongings from the floor of the coach and other people's laps. The driver coughs and standing up says " I'm very sorry about that folks, terrible conditions out there", and restarts the engine.
Not one person speaks but one old lady who says quietly from the back "I'm going to write to my MP about this".
It is 8.30 pm by the time I arrive at my local station, and my marvellous wife picks me up.
Have I since complained to South West Trains? Guess..
Ian is of a certain age when dealing with ear-hair can seem too much of a priority. He would secretly like to wear a cardigan and slippers. He thinks writing is the new black.
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