I am writing this snippet of blog on the train from Prestatyn to Broadstairs. As usual we are crammed in “nose to nipple style” in the no-so-quiet coach, but at least we have a seat, some strong coffee and Chris’ computer on which I have just watched the best bits of The Day After Tomorrow. Tapping away on the keys makes me feel like the academic sort I am definitely NOT, but it is nice to develop the illusion, albeit for the shortest of times.
Public transport in Britain, is paying lip service to better service, but generally the standard of customer care is bordering on the third world for much of the time. The exception of this (in train travel anyway) is the service between Manchester and Sheffield, the trans Pennine service, is clean, comfortable and on time in my experience as well as being the most scenic of journeys. The worst service (and I have discussed this at length before on my blog) is the trailer trash arriva trains wales service along the North Wales coast, which often resembles The Jerry Springer Show on wheels. (Enough said about that!)
I have to be fair here and stand up for the supertram in Sheffield, which was a godsend to me when we lived in Hillsborough. Like the transpennine trains, supertram was clean, efficient and user friendly, and I do miss those late night Friday night trams home after an over indulgence at The Dog And Partridge and All Bar One; crammed to the gunnels with tipsy benign Yorkshire types stinking of beer and cheesy chips.
Public transport in Wales is virtually non-existent. Prestatyn does have these “nipper” buses, which always remind me of my brother Andrew, who likens them to (and I am quoting here) “handicapped buses!!”, but the village and surrounding rural areas have bog all! This is why the staff at my hospital have been so pissed off with the staff parking charges soon to be enforced there. The staff and indeed patients have no choice but to drive often long distances to attend what is essentially a rural hospital with virtually no bus links; to be charged for this (100 quid a year) is totally disgusting! Anyhow I digress, and back to our virgin train to London.
I am looking around at my fellow passengers. Opposite is a couple in late middle age reading the Daily Mail. Her name is something like Patricia ( I am guessing as I think it says that on her husband’s tattoo). They are off to London for a “show”, probably Phantom, and have booked a nice hotel off Oxford Street. Over the way is a classy looking woman of 50 who is reading a book about Nancy Mitford (we like her as she’s polite and silent) and opposite her is the usual young mother and tiny baby. Now before Mike and Bev lynches me for baby bashing I must admit the little scrote have been very well behaved, and his mother thoughtful mindful of the fact that when he cries, she is quick to walk out of the carriage with him. The rest of the passengers (after Chester and Crewe where the great unwashed Welsh holiday makers tumbled off) seem like a quiet well behaved lot! (hurrah!!!) with only one bloke is sticking to the great UK tradition of swigging cider from a can at 11 am in the morning.
God, I am such a snob!!
Now there is a beach hut standard of behaviour to follow when setting up your "pitch", and Chris' family has had a much famed beach hut on the picturesque Broadstairs seafront for eons. First you stake your claim to the sand by coveting as much of it as humanly possible! The side windbreakers are erected first, then beach toys, sun loungers and tables are all arranged just so! The idea is to have an encampment (akin to the wagon trails of the of the old west), so that the women and children are safe!
