Where Mussolini and Chris Grayling Differ.
I had a follow-up
appointment about my ongoing vertigo in London this morning, which meant
braving the Chris Grayling-led shitstorm of a national rail service with its
supposedly newly phased-in timetable, which I’ve included a scan of below, in
case you’re unfamiliar with the changes.
 |
| The image is there, I promise. |
The
new timetable’s very bold and must be saving money across the board. If I’d
been given the task of streamlining the UK’s railway network, I don’t think I’d
have had the temerity to remove the actual trains from the equation; it’s a
stroke of genius akin to bringing Britain’s more stringent fire safety
requirements into force post-Grenfell by eliminating every building.
The journey into town was spent sat cross-legged on the floor of the carriage, unable to move thanks to the woman who chose to stand in the barely perceptible space I’d left so people could squeeze past. Thankfully, I had a copy of Private Eye to keep me entertained, or I wouldn’t have known where to look, as she’d given me few options, having practically straddled me while wearing a dress.
The journey home wasn’t too bad once we were on the move, though if I hadn’t decided to board a long-distance train that happened to stop at Stevenage and then catch a bus to Hitchin, I'd still be at King’s Cross now, as just about every train on the screens had been cancelled or was severely delayed, with no inking as to an arrival time (which is another way of cancelling it without owning up immediately). And I paid the best part of £20 for this sterling service.
My appointment was fine, though I had a long wait, as I was told on my arrival that my meeting had been rescheduled to last week (which I’d received no word of whatsoever); the nurse said the specialist would still see me today, but I’d have to wait for all her other patients to be seen first; classic. Still, every moment spent at the hospital wasn't spent on a train, much like what being on a train's currently like.
The journey into town was spent sat cross-legged on the floor of the carriage, unable to move thanks to the woman who chose to stand in the barely perceptible space I’d left so people could squeeze past. Thankfully, I had a copy of Private Eye to keep me entertained, or I wouldn’t have known where to look, as she’d given me few options, having practically straddled me while wearing a dress.
The journey home wasn’t too bad once we were on the move, though if I hadn’t decided to board a long-distance train that happened to stop at Stevenage and then catch a bus to Hitchin, I'd still be at King’s Cross now, as just about every train on the screens had been cancelled or was severely delayed, with no inking as to an arrival time (which is another way of cancelling it without owning up immediately). And I paid the best part of £20 for this sterling service.
My appointment was fine, though I had a long wait, as I was told on my arrival that my meeting had been rescheduled to last week (which I’d received no word of whatsoever); the nurse said the specialist would still see me today, but I’d have to wait for all her other patients to be seen first; classic. Still, every moment spent at the hospital wasn't spent on a train, much like what being on a train's currently like.
