Train, train, train, foot, train, bus, train

I believe in public transport. An essential criterion when buying this house was proximity to a decent local bus route. We are also within walking distance of the London and airport buses, which was a desirable rather than an essential, but something I take advantage of whenever the opportunity presents itself. I held onto my Young Person's Railcard until the very last possible day, and still get trains whenever it makes sense to rather than knee-jerking myself into the car.

This is partly because I don't particularly like driving, and if you're going to get pedantic about it, partly because I don't have a car of my own (and even when I did it wasn't really a car that liked being a long way from home, and it let you know about it). But it's mainly because I think we should promote mass transport, both environmentally and sociologically, and in my own imperfect little way I try to put my money where my mouth is. And if *I'm* going to get pedantic about it I would say that this is one of the reasons I don't have a car of my own.

But hell, they don't make it easy for you. First of all train fares cost a fucking fortune, and cost double for two in the way a car just doesn't, and then you have to fight drunken breastfeeding Glaswegians (no offence) for the seat you booked, and then the train limps into to Birmingham New Street and coughs its last and you have to decant into a giant roller skate pulled by pit ponies and it takes you seventeen years to get to Preston sitting in the same traffic you'd have been in if you'd driven in the first place, only with less privacy, a shorter temper and a fuller bladder.

This is only a slight exaggeration. I've taken the last train north for Easter many times, and it's never been pleasant. On one memorable occasion the smokers (and I was proud to be counted among them in those days) were herded into a rickety carriage with no electricity (= no light and no heat) and we lit candles and shared beer and sang songs as we inched north. We were four hours late on a three and a half hour journey, and ex-housemate S and I literally fell out onto the platform, so pissed were we. It was memorable, but I'd rather have got there on time and not had the vestigial smell of chilly train carriage piss hanging around for the whole weekend.

So... Japan we ain't, when it comes to rail travel. But I try and keep the faith, and as we are journeying north this easter for the parentals' 40th wedding anniversary, I thought I'd be organised and book train tickets.

And this was the suggestion for the return journey:



Six hours, six changes. Chances of a journey this convoluted going smoothly: slim. Chances of us paying fifty four quid each for the privilege of getting on a bus at Dorridge (Dorridge? Dorridge? Where the fuck is Dorridge?): zero.

So it looks like the M6 at snail's pace, playing I-Spy and trying not to split up. Housemate K suggested flying from Stansted to Blackpool. I know short haul flights are evil, but you know what, two flights would cost the same as one train ticket and take 45 minutes. If we didn't live two hours from Stansted I think I'd be doing it. I'd hate myself, but I would stay sane. As things stand, it looks like I'm going to hate myself *and* go mad. Bring it on.

joella