The Journey Home, Mostly Written on theTrain Rather Drunk
Something, eh? You can boot the bugger up on what they call an 'airline seat', which is a scabby wee seat, crammed in with hundreds of others, which would of course be untenable to those who can’t type., cos it's floating around on the wee tray like I don' t know what…
This whole touch typing thing is much on my mind lately . I'm thinking maybe it can get me some work at some stage? Work. That's the thing.
… But before I start on my search for and theories regarding work, here's what's been happening:
Transport arrived at around 10 as agreed - actually a bit later; Mohammed had arrived a wee bit before; frankly I've mixed feelings about a heterosexual contemporary of whom I've grown fond kissing my upper neck as we embrace… There's a thing to write about. Mohammed's a working man like us. He told me yesterday, to my astonishment, that he's off to Israel, when this job ends - mucho dinero? Si! Y libertad. No volver a Libya. En Libya, trabajar, y dormir, trabarjar, y dormir, todos los dias… Mira? De nada!
Well so far my pidgin Castellano went. Said and understood.
The relative power of money, is what it's all about. I've spent about a 100 and odd dinars this trip - eight weeks, about 40 quid; fucking hell.
Anyhow, I'm typing this NOW on the train frae king's cross to Geordieland, £87 pound single. It was a near thing.
We got to the airport at Tripoli in proper time. Normally, GECOL provide an uncomprehending official at these times, but not today. We got transported to the airport without fuss. I snapped a meaningless montage en route.
The flight coming from Heathrow was an hour late. I saw the BA crew arrive, and get walked around the environs of the airport several times. "Normally we just get here and…"
We got on board and the BA people were just brilliant as usual - that's one hell of job, eh? Imagine…
We were an hour late, anyway, 'cos of some earlier problem, and then we all got settled down on the plane ready for offski, and then all these African people in suits turned up wanting seats in business and carrying foolish amounts of hand luggage… We had been held back, according to the answer from enquiry form a youngish businessman to one of the stewardesses, 'for political reasons'. Hilarious. During the flight I suggested to Pad, in frank terms, that we put the discussion of fucking Ted an fucking Trevor behind us.
Things naturally got a wee bit barmy at Heathrow. I went looking for a place we could get a pint, and Padraig naturally got lost. I eventually gave up: I found a place that sold Guinness, the desired object, and expected him to follow… he didn't, the management in the bar wouldn't allow the staff to mind my luggage if I went to look for him, and my shout down the hall 'PADRAIG!' was sadly lost in the echoes of fucking Heathrow..
So I headed for King Cross, and got to the Heathrow Tube Station which is a bit like our own St James' in that there's two platforms with two trains, both going the same way, and as I'm hauling myself and my fucking rucksack (which ways a ton, by the bye), and my laptop bag, ( which is no lightweight indeed), and the fucking stupid knot's framed present thing from my students, not forgetting the part/tourist pack of perfume I got at Tripoli duty free for herself (wherein CDs are 18 Euros, incidentally, that's daft isn't it?), and the I hear my name shouted from the other platform, and there's Pad, and his train goes, and he jumps on it and leaves his fucking luggage on the platform, and I'm fucking lumbered with it now and manage to mouth to him as his tube train departs: Kings Cross.
Fucking hell! But at least I'm on my way home and can ring Herself and tell her the story… But a young New Zealandish lad approaches me on the Tube and says he couldn't help overhearing and are these bags all mine? And oh my God! When Padraig gets on the tube at some stop, beginning with N, where the two lines intersect there is spontaneous applause, I'm not kidding, the whole fucking carriage goes home on a lift, the wee Antipodean busy fucking body is now a post 9/11 hero and … don't even get me started!
What happened next was, I desperately needed to get the 10pm last train from London to Home, and I was desperate for a slash, so we got out at Knightsbridge, of ALL places, and I dashed down a lane right by the station and peed under a skip, and effectively then left Pad at Knightsbridge tube station whilst I legged it and got this train…
Don't even get me started on the absurd state of my specs, cider, and fuck knows what about the various kindness or ignorance of my fellow passengers…. I'm home and we come in all colours.
(And now it's Thursday, I'm home, there have been bombs and I was there a few hours ago, and where the hell is Padraig? I left him in the lurch at Knightsbridge. Get in touch mate!)
This whole touch typing thing is much on my mind lately . I'm thinking maybe it can get me some work at some stage? Work. That's the thing.
… But before I start on my search for and theories regarding work, here's what's been happening:
Transport arrived at around 10 as agreed - actually a bit later; Mohammed had arrived a wee bit before; frankly I've mixed feelings about a heterosexual contemporary of whom I've grown fond kissing my upper neck as we embrace… There's a thing to write about. Mohammed's a working man like us. He told me yesterday, to my astonishment, that he's off to Israel, when this job ends - mucho dinero? Si! Y libertad. No volver a Libya. En Libya, trabajar, y dormir, trabarjar, y dormir, todos los dias… Mira? De nada!
Well so far my pidgin Castellano went. Said and understood.
The relative power of money, is what it's all about. I've spent about a 100 and odd dinars this trip - eight weeks, about 40 quid; fucking hell.
Anyhow, I'm typing this NOW on the train frae king's cross to Geordieland, £87 pound single. It was a near thing.
We got to the airport at Tripoli in proper time. Normally, GECOL provide an uncomprehending official at these times, but not today. We got transported to the airport without fuss. I snapped a meaningless montage en route.
The flight coming from Heathrow was an hour late. I saw the BA crew arrive, and get walked around the environs of the airport several times. "Normally we just get here and…"
We got on board and the BA people were just brilliant as usual - that's one hell of job, eh? Imagine…
We were an hour late, anyway, 'cos of some earlier problem, and then we all got settled down on the plane ready for offski, and then all these African people in suits turned up wanting seats in business and carrying foolish amounts of hand luggage… We had been held back, according to the answer from enquiry form a youngish businessman to one of the stewardesses, 'for political reasons'. Hilarious. During the flight I suggested to Pad, in frank terms, that we put the discussion of fucking Ted an fucking Trevor behind us.
Things naturally got a wee bit barmy at Heathrow. I went looking for a place we could get a pint, and Padraig naturally got lost. I eventually gave up: I found a place that sold Guinness, the desired object, and expected him to follow… he didn't, the management in the bar wouldn't allow the staff to mind my luggage if I went to look for him, and my shout down the hall 'PADRAIG!' was sadly lost in the echoes of fucking Heathrow..
So I headed for King Cross, and got to the Heathrow Tube Station which is a bit like our own St James' in that there's two platforms with two trains, both going the same way, and as I'm hauling myself and my fucking rucksack (which ways a ton, by the bye), and my laptop bag, ( which is no lightweight indeed), and the fucking stupid knot's framed present thing from my students, not forgetting the part/tourist pack of perfume I got at Tripoli duty free for herself (wherein CDs are 18 Euros, incidentally, that's daft isn't it?), and the I hear my name shouted from the other platform, and there's Pad, and his train goes, and he jumps on it and leaves his fucking luggage on the platform, and I'm fucking lumbered with it now and manage to mouth to him as his tube train departs: Kings Cross.
Fucking hell! But at least I'm on my way home and can ring Herself and tell her the story… But a young New Zealandish lad approaches me on the Tube and says he couldn't help overhearing and are these bags all mine? And oh my God! When Padraig gets on the tube at some stop, beginning with N, where the two lines intersect there is spontaneous applause, I'm not kidding, the whole fucking carriage goes home on a lift, the wee Antipodean busy fucking body is now a post 9/11 hero and … don't even get me started!
What happened next was, I desperately needed to get the 10pm last train from London to Home, and I was desperate for a slash, so we got out at Knightsbridge, of ALL places, and I dashed down a lane right by the station and peed under a skip, and effectively then left Pad at Knightsbridge tube station whilst I legged it and got this train…
Don't even get me started on the absurd state of my specs, cider, and fuck knows what about the various kindness or ignorance of my fellow passengers…. I'm home and we come in all colours.
(And now it's Thursday, I'm home, there have been bombs and I was there a few hours ago, and where the hell is Padraig? I left him in the lurch at Knightsbridge. Get in touch mate!)
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