Tweet and Lowdown

Don't get me wrong: I love Twitter.  In the few years I've been using it I've become an addict and a devotee.  I rarely go a whole day without firing at least one idle thought out into the ether - for example:

It's all become a bit of a strain lately, though.  Some of the fun's gone out of it.  Between rape threats, calls for moderation, Russian boycotts, racist vans, Sun front pages and the continuing presence of One Direction in the Trending Topics, it's all got a bit stressful.  My timeline used to just be people tweeting their dinners and sarcastic comments about Gail Platt's hair; now the vortex of hysteria which sometimes engulfs Twitter is demanding I sign petitions or boycott the platform for a day.  Plus I follow Mia Farrow, and though she tweets a lot of great fun stuff (including the revelation that she was watching Sharknado with Philip Roth, which may be my favourite thing ever) she also regularly tells you about the latest Third World atrocity.  Bit of a bummer.

Thank goodness then, for the odd little ray of sunshine, like Tim and Andy at Northern Rail.  There's a bunch of tweeters employed by the rail company to keep passengers informed about delays and cancellations, and frankly I'd rather be minesweeping in the Afghan foothills than do that job.  Every day you have to put up with this kind of shit:

That was following a theft of overhead lines in Stockport.   I'm afraid I might have responded with something a little more direct, like "What do you want me to do?  Come down there and strap you to my back and run you to work?"

In the old days, of course, people would have just tutted and rolled their eyes and gone back to reading the Metro.  Twitter has enabled direct, one to one conversations with the rail companies in real time, and so frustrated people on the platform just start venting wildly:

I wouldn't put up with that kind of crap.  I am a real loss to the customer service industry.

There are a whole bunch of people who do the tweeting on behalf of Northern Rail, but Tim and Andy are my favourites.  They're relentlessly upbeat, unfailingly polite, and sometimes wilfully surreal:

Now that's good social networking.  Engaging, pleasant and fun.  Or this one:

which is just plain camp.

I might feel different if I had to put up with cheery little gags when I'm getting drenched on a platform in Arnside because the promised train hasn't turned up, but sitting at home with a cup of tea I appreciate the moments of levity.  I can't decide who my favourite is though.  On the one hand, Andy often begins his weekend shifts with "Sunday Sunday, here again in tidy attire" so we clearly share a spirit animal.  I couldn't find an example of him actually saying it, sadly, because I went back through Northern Rail's timeline and I hit all their apologies to people incensed that they were refusing to run trains following flash flooding at Walsden and I had to go and have a lie down because RAGE.

On the other hand, I got this response from Tim:

so you know: there's that.  Tim is also the one running the current #NorthernView contest:

It's a nice little competition, and he retweets the best shots, so you get a little moment of pride.  I haven't entered because I rarely take photos out the window of trains - I'm so boring that England's magnificent scenery is so much blah to me; I'm just waiting for the next station to turn up.  It seems to be something Tim's done off his own back, even though he's doomed to be unappreciated:

Twitter's an informal medium so it's good to have companies being friendly and a bit more "dress down Fridays", even when they're telling us that something horrible has happened.  Merseyrail's Twitter account is a lot less fun.  It's mainly used to tweet bad news - trains turning back at Hillside or the continued loop closure - so you start to think bad things when that yellow M pops up.  It's never a joke about the heat, put it that way, though now and then they'll have a competition to win tickets to see Jessie J in Chester or something, which is somehow worse.  And, worst of all, they stop tweeting at four o'clock, and don't tweet at all on weekends - they actually admit to it in their profile.  I can see why people get in a rage when they're waiting for their delayed train home and Merseyrail's front-facing services seem to have knocked off.

Yesterday, they did tweet something fun and interesting though:

It seems that the poster dates from 1962, when the Beatles were regulars at New Brighton's Tower Ballroom.  It ended up being the tweet that was heard round the world, thanks to Scouse actor David Morrissey.  He retweeted Merseyrail's picture, and then followed it up with this:

Good on you Dave; this more than makes up for Basic Instinct 2.  (And thanks to @sebpatrick for the heads up).

I love that it's been uncovered completely accidentally, and I really hope it's not going to be disposed of too quickly.  Maaaaaaaaarten Spaaaaaaaaaargaren, Merseyrail's Grand Chief Poobah, tweeted:

My suggestion is that they frame it and put it up in a station, either Bidston or New Brighton.  I wouldn't want it to just be handed over to the Beatles Story (who've probably got hundreds of these things) or auctioned off to some American who'll stick it in a glass case in his mansion.  Frame it and put it up on Merseyrail: make it a treat for passengers and tourists.  I'm sure it'd be an attraction in its own right; all those slightly scary Japanese tourists you see doing V-signs outside the Cavern would love it.

Of course, some people had alternative suggestions:

Sigh.

The Usual Suspects

Lined up against the wall, their stillness makes them stand out against the whirl of Liverpool Central.  Five teenagers: three girls, two boys.  They lean up against the blue hoarding, each one adopting a different pose.  One arm lean, a shoulder thrust, the full back against the wall.  They alternate between insouciance and terror.

The girls look bored.  Their faces are studied masks of contempt and indifference.  This whole experience is beneath them.  They're wearing frighteningly mature clothes, tiny denim shorts and crop tops, side pony tails and lipstick.  Shiny handbags are hanging over hunched shoulders.  Bright bands of coloured plastic surround each wrist.

The boys, on the other hand, look scared.  They're probably the same age as the girls, but the hormones haven't hit them yet, so they look tiny next to these tightly-dressed Amazons.  They stare down at their feet, occasionally glancing at the passing passengers, trying not to catch anyone's eye.  They're wondering how they got into this.  The girls said it would be fun.  Hang out in town.  Go round the shops.  Their confused pubescent brains say yes to anything the girls say, without really knowing why.  They said yes to going to Liverpool.  They said yes to getting the train.  They said yes to not buying a ticket.

On the end, the yellow-jacketed Response officer idly turns the pages of his notebook.  He scribbles on the back to wake his biro up.  He's in no hurry; in fact, he finds he gets better results if he makes them wait.  They didn't realise that if you get caught skipping the fare, the station at the end will be informed of your approach.  They thought they could maybe get away with it.

It doesn't fill him with pleasure, holding up kids like this, but he has no guilt about it.  It's his job.  They have to learn.

I wondered if they'd managed to think up aliases.  Did they have time to come up with false addresses and names?  Create a convincing character as they saw the man waiting for them?  I picture them stumbling over syllables, inadvertently repeating names ("yeah... I'm called Johnson as well"), shaking. The girls carrying that arrogance that only 13 year olds in neon Primark t-shirts can manage.  That shamelessness and anger at even being questioned.  The boys watching them nervously out of the corner of their eye, trying to feel the same, trying to get strength from them, but caving in and giving their real details.  The girls kiss their teeth and roll their eyes and wait for the man in the fluorescent coat to come back to them for their details again ("the real ones, this time").

On the escalator two more Response officers ride down to the Wirral Line.  There's another batch coming in.

Odd

I don't cycle.  I haven't ridden a bike in years.  In fact the last time I rode a bike was on my BMX when I was about 14.

I will say, however, that if I did ride a bike I would follow certain fashion rules.  No lycra, for one.  No tight spandex.  No shiny fabrics.

And unlike this gentleman I spotted at Hamilton Square station, I'd wear socks that matched.

Or am I just being picky?

Incidentally, while I'm very glad that Merseyrail is so cycle friendly, is there some way we can make them take the lift from the platforms?  I'm getting a little tired of having wheels shoved in my face on the escalators.  Thank you.

Rolling With My Homie

It's been a long morning.  That meeting went well, but there's another one to come.  You've got to cross the river on a train and then get going businesslike all over again.  All you want to do is kick back and relax with a roll-up.  You want to step out of that station and start sucking away on the nicotine as soon as you can.

The solution?  Start rolling on the train.  That empty seat gives you plenty of room to spread your papers around.  Keep a good grip as the train bumps over the tracks though or you'll be chucking Golden Virginia all over the floor.

Well done.  You'll be full of tobacco before the door of Hamilton Square slams behind you.

24 Hour Party Person

I crossed the Pier Head and looked up at the glowing white lights of the Ferry Terminal. Deep breaths. Calm. I'm going in.

It's safe to say I'm not a party person. I've had just one birthday party in my life, when I was five. The anxiety of it was so much - I was convinced nobody would turn up - my mum effectively put a stop to them for my own health. And today, as a fully grown adult, I prefer to loiter somewhere at the back, hidden away, generally with a drink or six. Or I just don't go.

"Don't go" was my first instinct when I got the following e-mail:

Dear Friends and Colleagues,

Merseyrail New Year Reception 2011

The Merseyrail management team and I would like to invite you to join us for our annual New Year Reception on Thursday 27th January 2011...

I mean, good God no. A party full of people I don't know? People I respect? Bart Schmeink? What am I going to do there? The Bf intervened at this point, however, and practically forced me to accept. "It'll be good for you," he said. And, after just the one panic attack, and doped up on my anti-depressants, I was walking through the door into the party and accepting a champagne cocktail and thinking, "how bad could it be?".

The invite had promised "entertainment". I wasn't sure what that would be. My only knowledge of corporate entertainment comes from Showgirls, where Nomi dances on top of a boat in a sparkly dress and then gets sexually harassed by a sleazy Asian businessman. Merseyrail have a different concept of the term; they had pupils from the Archbishop Beck Catholic High School playing the Theme from the Muppet Show on a trumpet. Hopefully none of them were molested by a skeezy man in a suit later in the evening.

I did a couple of rounds of Matou, clutching a Jack Daniels and Coke, before I found a suitably tucked away corner and installed myself there. I was almost instantly leapt upon by two men, who turned out to be Rudi and Matt; the publicity mavens of Merseyrail. That's the problem with sticking your face all over your blog - people tend to recognise you. They were really nice, however, welcoming me to the party, offering to get me a drink, and not mentioning the fact that I was turning bright crimson throughout.

After a little chat, I went on another wander, and I found a seat at the back of the restaurant. Great. I could relax a bit. Which is when another man turned up and said, "Excuse me. Are you the Merseytart?"

Suddenly I wished I'd chosen a less daft name.

This guy turned out to be Ian from Merseytravel, who again had read my blog. "When are you going to finish it?" he asked, leading me to bluster about "enjoying it too much", which is a polite way of saying, "no idea". Ian then called over his colleague, Emma, who's responsible for the Art on the Network programme. I was reminded of a quote I read the other day, about blogging being all power and no responsibility, when she said "I understand you're not keen on the Grant Searl artwork?"

I managed to hold my own, I think, and I said that I really didn't like its positioning on Platform 2 - it competes and fights with Dream Passage. I did also say that I loved the other artwork, and the whole Art on the Network programme in general. Ian also explained about the riddles, hidden inside each painting; when all five are complete, the answer to the riddle will become clear. He said the actual solution is inside a safe at Merseytravel HQ right now, and I made a mental note to break out my leather all in one catsuit and burglars tools when I got home.

As we were talking, the speeches began, but sadly I was too far away to hear any of them, so I went out on the balcony for a bit of air. When they built the new Ferry Terminal, I remember thinking it was the wrong way round; the balcony was at the back, not overlooking the river. When I was up there though, I suddenly understood it. Firstly, there was hardly any wind, despite it being a blustery January night - the main block of Matou shielded it perfectly. Secondly, the view was beautiful. The three buildings of the Pier Head, high above me, glowing in the light (well, two of them were; the Cunard Building's currently covered in sheeting). It was awe-inspiring.

The speeches had all finished by the time I got inside, and a comedian was up there, telling jokes I couldn't hear instead. At that point, someone else introduced themselves to me. "Hello, I'm Mark. I'm the man responsible for the square loop on the map."

I don't know what went through my head at that moment, but I'm sure the word bollocks was in there somewhere. I wanted to just crawl away and die.

Fortunately, Mark was a very nice bloke, and he explained the rationale behind the square: there's a surfeit of tourists getting on at Lime Street, thinking they can go round and round the loop, and ending up in Birkenhead. The square was his initial suggestion as a way of making it clearer, but as he said, he's an engineer and he planned it out on Excel; he assumed the design team would make it look great. Instead, they just shoved a square on the map. He wasn't happy with it. Phew. Plus he's the man responsible for the line diagrams that are all over the place, which I love.

We had a good old chat, actually, about different design standards for the network, and the influence of Harry Beck's Underground diagram. I recommended he get Mark Ovenden's Metro Maps of the World, and actually I'd recommend it to anyone - it's a great read, and not too geeky.

Rudi came over again, and said he liked the blog, then Matt asked me how I felt about being mentioned in Bart's speech?

"Eh?" I replied. Yup, apparently, HRH Bart Schmeink had actually told the room that I was there, but I hadn't heard it because I was at the back. Thank God, is all I can say, because I probably would have become the first person to cringe themself to death otherwise.

And then I was recognised again, by Steve, who manages the guards on the Wirral Line. I was actually starting to enjoy it, like the big old fame whore I am. It was nice to have other people making the effort to talk to me, because otherwise I'd just have hidden away and been silent all evening, and everyone was very complimentary about my blog. It was also nice that people seemed to read the blog for its entertainment value, not just in case I said something rude about Merseyrail. Steve and I had a chat, and he introduced me to Natalie, who's a newly appointed internet wiz; we talked about how she wants to really increase the web presence, and embrace social networks, and all sorts of exciting sounding things.

It was getting towards eight o'clock, and the party was thinning out, and I had to go home and get some dinner. There was lots of lovely looking finger food on display, but my tense stomach had twisted itself into a figure eight and there was no way I'd be able to swallow food. I just had one more thing to do: meet Bart Schmeink.

For the first time that evening, I went up to someone and introduced myself. And he recognised me! Really, by this point, I was starting to feel like Angelina Jolie, but without the breasts. Or Brad Pitt, unfortunately. What followed was a bit of a mutual appreciation society - we both said nice things about one another, we had a bit of a talk, he offered to buy me a drink - it was all very pleasant. And then he gave me his card, which was a silly move on his part. It's a bit like From Russia With Love, where Bond unknowingly invites Grant into his cabin on the Orient Express - he seems nice, but he's actually a raging nutcase underneath. (Please note: I'm the stalking nutcase in this scenario).

Well, nothing could match up to that, so I made a swift exit, behind two ladies. One of them turned to me and said, "I hope you're going to write nice things about us!" and I burbled some kind of reply through my blushes.

When I got outside, and I was halfway across the Pier Head, I just stopped and laughed. Really laughed. It was one of the strangest nights of my life but I'm glad it happened. I can't say I've overcome my party fears, but heck, I had a good time. That's something at least. Thanks to Merseyrail for the invite, and for being so nice. You didn't have to but you did, and you just went up about twenty notches in my estimation. (Yes, I'm that easily bought).

Victory!

Above is the happy smiling face of Gary Briscoe, the newly crowned winner of the Station Staff of the Year award at the RailStaff Awards. The Wirral Line Manager was nominated for the award a couple of months ago, but in a ceremony last Saturday he was given the prize by none other than Pete Waterman. I don't think Gary demeaned himself as I would have done by berating Pete for our lacklustre Eurovision entry, but that's why he's a classy award-winner and I'm not.

A hearty well done to Gary for the award - a real achievement, and on a national scale too. It's great to see great customer service rewarded in this way. I still haven't collected Bromborough Rake station, and I look forward to it now; not only to see all of his achievements in the flesh, but also to get a paparazzi-like photograph with the newly crowned King of Merseyrail!

You can see all the winners here.

And the Winner Is...

It is one of my life's ambitions to win an Oscar. And a proper Oscar, not Best Sound Editing or something. A real Academy Award, which will be presented to me by a tearful Halle Berry, and which I will accept wearing a chic tuxedo (Armani, naturally). I will thank Ms Berry profusely, then the Academy, then make a personal political statement ("Free Tibet" perhaps?), before saying that I couldn't have been named Best Actor In The World Ever without the support of everyone I ever met, but actually, I'm pretty amazing, and probably would have done it without them anyway. The Kodak Theatre will rise to its feet in applause, and my fellow nominees (Robert de Niro, Al Pacino, Daniel Day Lewis and Russell Tovey) will graciously accept that I am in fact marvellous, and they deserved to lose to someone as fantastic as me.

This may not happen.

In reality, I've never won anything at work. I tell a lie: I seem to remember winning a Cadbury's Creme Egg while I worked at WH Smith in Birkenhead. I can't remember what for. I don't think it was for being the Best Actor In The World Ever, anyway.

I should have joined the rail industry as it turns out they have an annual beano: the RailStaff Awards. Due to be presented in Birmingham this October, the awards acknowledge the contribution of staff from across the rail network, and give a reward to those who go above and beyond the call of duty. And what prizes! 3d tvs, a New York break, a trip on the Orient Express... it's better than an Oscar in fact, as all you get there is a manky old lump of metal. Penelope Cruz didn't get an iPad for being Best Supporting Actress, did she?

I'm happy to report that Merseyrail has not one, but two nominees in the category of Station Staff of the Year. The first is Craig Munnerley, who by day works at the MtoGo in Hamilton Square. He's been nominated for his work with Liverpool Pride, and in particular, for getting Merseyrail to become such an integral part of the event. Craig helped to get them involved both financially and also in promoting the day across the network. It turns out that he was also the extremely enthusiastic guy on the microphone on the Merseyrail stand - the one who caused me to run a mile. A lifetime of cynicism has meant that I recoil whenever people are happy and keen - I'm far better at standing in the background, raising an eyebrow and pursing my lips.

Craig on the other hand is far more of a "doer", and his efforts at getting a rousing chorus of "Oops Upside Your Head" have now been rewarded with a nomination at the RailStaff awards. Well done him!

The other nominee is Gary Briscoe, who is the Duty Manager at Bromborough Rake station. The station backs onto a nature reserve, and Gary has been working with the wardens there to encourage wildlife - there are now nesting boxes on the trees. He's also been nominated for his community work, including helping a terminally ill man nearby and driving a drunk woman home after she collapsed outside the station. I like to hear stories like this, mainly because, as a professional drunk myself, I like to think that people will help me out when I'm sprawled in the gutter somewhere. I'll make sure that next time I'm comatose after too many JD and Cokes I'll jump off at Bromborough Rake.

Gary also proved his worth as a railway man, spotting a track defect and getting it fixed overnight, sparing the morning commuters all kinds of hell in the process. In recognition of his contributions, Gary's been nominated for the Outstanding Customer Service Award in addition to the Station Staff Award.

Both of them are worthy nominees but sadly, there's only one winner. You can vote for who you want to win the Station Staff of the Year Award here. Vote early, vote often, that's what I say. They're both clearly marvellous chaps and fully deserving of the accolades. It's also good to see Merseyrail itself getting some kudos for its customer service skills. I'll keep an eye out for the results of the awards when they're announced on October 23rd.

In the meantime, I'll be in front of the mirror, practising my speech.

In The Pink

So: it was Liverpool Pride at the weekend, an excuse for the city's homosexuals to get together and bond. I'm not really one for Pride festivals, normally. I went to Manchester Pride about twelve years ago and it was horrible. You paid to get in, which is odd considering it was being held on public streets, and then you were hemmed into narrow, crowded districts of bars and stands. There was an air of frenetic, unpleasant chaos about the place, not helped by the number of people nakedly staring at passers by, summing them up. I was there for about two hours before I'd had enough.

Liverpool Pride though - well, that's different. For starters it was free. Secondly, it was in Liverpool, a city I have very much taken to my heart since I moved here (gulp) fifteen years ago. I thought it was important to go along and take part, especially since there's been an unpleasant rise in homophobic attacks in the city over the past couple of years. Sometimes it's good to show that your community isn't afraid, and is actually proud of who they are.

We marched from St George's Plateau to Dale Street, which had been closed for the festival, right through the centre of the city. I was incredibly pleased to see people by the side of the road, cheering, shouting, applauding: all sorts of Scousers just enjoying the spectacle. Ok, one boy did point at me and shout "poof!" (well spotted), and there was a contingent of Christian Fundamentalists in Derby Square telling us we were all going to hell, but beyond that it was an incredibly positive reception. There's something wonderful about men putting their kids on their shoulders so they can get a better view of a six foot drag queen with awesome legs.

After that there was a day of hedonism ahead. Well, as hedonistic as you can get in an industrial Northern city - it wasn't exactly a bacchanalian orgy. It was just a good time. The whole experience was completely different to the Manchester one - there was a glee in the air, a really friendly atmosphere that was great to be a part of.

And I was pleased to see that Merseytravel and Merseyrail were part of it all. Merseyrail had a stand, with pink t-shirt wearing staff on hand. I'm not sure what was going on at the stand, because when we walked past there was a man with a microphone trying to drum up volunteers: this is the kind of behaviour that causes me to have a small panic attack in case I'm dragged in and made to sing or something, so I backed away quietly. Otherwise I'd have checked it out for freebies (those pink t-shirts would do nicely, for starters). I'm such a cheap-ass, but then you knew that: remember how excited I got over my Merseyrail flip-flops?

Merseytravel were one of the sponsors, so I knew they'd be there, and I got very excited when I saw two women in Exchange Square with Merseytravel bags. Freebies! Freebies with a big M on them! I immediately dragged everyone to the stand to look for stuff to get. Sadly, when I got there, shyness took over. I couldn't quite bring myself to just say "Can I have a load of corporate guff please?". Instead I satisfied myself with some great Art on the Network postcards:

I particularly like the one on the left: it's got a great, fractured beauty to it. The woman on the stall saw me grabbing Art on the Network stuff and asked if I was an artist, before giving me the rundown on the competition.

I also got a postcard of Tony Fitzpatrick's work from Liverpool Central:

Job done, I rejoined my pals, who immediately called me out for being such a chicken and not getting a bag. Well, it's rude to ask, isn't it? So Jamie, bless him, took the matter into his own hands and went and got me one:

Hurray! Like I said, stick an "M" on it and I'm there.

The rest of the day was spent in various bars, knocking back pint after pint. I also bumped into Nat, who recognised me from the blog; humiliatingly, she spotted me in the crowd for Adam Rickitt - I wasn't there to see him, I was just on my way past! Honest! We had a bit of a chat, and I told her to get back on with blogging because she's become positively sporadic in her writing. I'm afraid I was home by eleven, what with being an old fart and everything, but it was a great day. I'm already looking forward to next year.

He's Lovin' It

I'm with this guy.

He's been to a McDonalds, and had to marshall a load of screaming, insane, E-number fuelled children. They threw food, they clambered over the furniture, they chucked coke down their fronts. They wiped their noses on the bun of that kid everyone hates and made him cry. At the centre of this is a teeny tiny brat who is demanding everyone gives him their fries because he's the birthday boy and while they're at it he wants the best of the Happy Meal toys and if you don't give it to him he's going to SCREAM.

This guy's had to deal with all that, and all he's got out of it is probably a couple of hours with his snotty, obnoxious grandchild and two balloons with a Happy Meal logo on them. He thought it'd be a nice time out but kids are evil. He wants to get home and get away. What could possibly help him?

A keg of Heineken. Yeah, that'll do. He's going to get home, collapse into an armchair, and pour out the first of many, many pints of lager. Then he's going to pop each of those balloons, and enjoy. Every. Moment.

Blondie

I hate to deal in stereotypes. No, really, I do. But sometimes you're confronted with a humanoid who is the living embodiment of a cliche, and all you can do is sit back, mouth agape, and take it all in.

I was getting the train to Liverpool with the Bf, and we squeezed opposite a girl who was busy chatting on her mobile phone. She was early twenties, blonde, long hair, Katie Price permatan and sprayed on leggings. When I say "chatting", I mean, "stream of consciousness being poured into a Nokia."

"Yeah, I'm on a train... I know! Well, I thought, if I got a train into Liverpool I'd be able to sit back and relax and read a book."

(Editor's note: she did not have a book on her lap, and at no point did she reveal one to be about her person. I suspect by 'book' she meant ''Circle of Shame' in Heat'.)

The train starts up, and she continues: "Yeah, it's moving now... I know! You'll have to tell me where to go in Liverpool, or I'll get lost and I'll just wander round all day."

(Editor's note: there are four stations in Liverpool City Centre. All are within a mile of one another.)

Right after Birkenhead Park station, the train enters the tunnel for the long underground section into the city centre. Our Blonde companion starts squeaking into the phone - "Ooh, tunnel! Are you there? Are you there?" She then looks at the phone with a mixture of puzzlement and irritation, before shaking it. Yes, she shook it, as though it was a pepper mill that had got blocked.

The next station, Conway Park, is below ground, but open to the elements, and so Blonde's phone sprang back into life. She immediately dialled her friend back. "Yeah, I don't know what happened there. The signal just went."

The train takes off. Back into the tunnel. The very long tunnel which will take us under the river and into the city. So Blonde lost her signal again. What to do?

Well, first you shake it again. Because it worked last time, didn't it?

Then you squint at the screen.

Then you hold it up to the window, because despite being several hundred metres below ground, the window is open, and so, you know, some of the signal might be able to get through, right?

Then you try dialling again.

Then, as we enter Hamilton Square, Blonde realises she won't be able to make a call. She squints at the map and realises she won't be able to make a call for quite some time.

There's only one thing she can do in these circumstances.

She starts texting.

FAIL.

Lunchtime Vignette

The train smells of beer. Cheap, nasty booze, filling the carriage. People avoid them. A man takes his son to a different seat so they're not close by.

He slumps against the window, slurring, stammering, whispering to the woman across from him. His words are thick with alcohol. He struggles to keep his head level. Sips Tizer from a can.

She cuts into him. "I've heard it all before, Dad."

He looks out the window into the tunnel, then back at her. "I do love you, you know." But his words taste of lager. She doesn't respond.

His granddaughter looks away as he slips into unconsciousness.

The Future's So Bright, I Gotta Wear Shades

Dear Man At Lime Street

a) It's an underground station. There's no sunshine.

b) It's March in the UK. There's definitely no sunshine.

c) Take the shades off. You look like an idiot.

Many thanks.

Calling Eric Sykes

As seen on the train this evening: a man, a train, and a nine foot length of wood. Cue much "hilarious" shifting of passengers as they try to avoid being brained by said length...