I like travelling on trains: my favourite form of transport. But only ‘first class. It’s much cleaner, the seats are more comfortable and you get free food. Also of course one is removed from the riff-raff encountered on public transport.
As we were approaching Milton Keynes, I told Carole to watch out for the concrete cows. She did not believe that there were concrete cows in a field adjacent to the railway track and, when we failed to see any, she accused me of ‘winding her up’ as she puts it.
I am baffled. I am sure that I have observed these bovine effigies on a previous journey south. What can possibly have happened to them? Where they not yielding enough concrete milk! But seriously, I hope I have not imagined it all. But you can’t imagine you see concrete cows in a field – can you?
No matter. Our Virgin train touched buffers at Euston, bang on time. I must write to Mr Branson, commending him on the splendid way he runs his railroad.
Our ‘first class’ journey was marred only by an unfortunate incident: a bishop had to be ejected from the first-class carriage, because he was travelling on a third class ticket. He told the guard he was on his way to the Lambeth Conference and, in his haste to board the train, had purchased the wrong ticket. That official said he could accept the difference now, in cash. The cleric replied that he did not have sufficient monies upon his person, but would be happy to reimburse the railway company on reaching the house of his friend, the Archbishop of Canterbury.
“Sorry mate” responded the guard, “it’s money now, or you go into third class”
“But damn-it man, can’t you see I am a bishop?” shouted the peeved prelate.
“I don’t care if you’re the bleedin’ Pope, mate” And so saying the guard took the man firmly by the arm and led him to the door.

It was after he had gone that I noticed an I-Pod and a copy of ‘Crime and Punishment’ on the seat previously occupied by that gentleman. I asked Carole to nip along with them into third class and return them to the unhappy bishop.
‘Why can’t you go’ she said.
‘Because I am allergic to dust’ I retorted.
When she came back I said ‘Can you imagine that: a man of the cloth trying to bilk the railway company’ I was amazed at her answer.
‘I thought you might have lent the poor man the difference. You must have money because I paid for our tickets’
‘Listen’ I told her, ‘I am a Methodist and I do not hold with graven images and the Episcopalian flummery of that man’s church.’
One has to uphold one’s religious convictions.’

She did not speak to me again until well after Rugby. Then she thrust one of her ‘Turkish Delights’ at me, in a conciliatory gesture.

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