Boot

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Yate train station is less of a station and more of a request stop. When I arrive the train's not due for another 40 minutes but the bench is already occupied by Mr Cardiff Builder Boy and his Builder buddy who may or may not be from Cardiff (it's hard to tell as he only communicates in guttural grunts that may or may not have Welsh undertones). Grunt boy is definitely the underdog – from time to time Mr Cardiff stomps on the top of Grunt's right boot to 'test it out against bricks you know'. Protruding from his well stomped boots are a pair of molding blue football socks and tucked into these a retro shellsuit, navy with single white stripes running up the side seams. Then come Calvin Klein pants -at least half of them bulging out over the shell wasteline. A non-descript grey jacket and finally zigzag tram lines into a blond-died crew cut.

Then driveling Cardiff catches my eye, winks and stomps Grunt. 'Do your spitting thing', he commands. Grunt grunts, leans right back, tilting his neck, his eyes bulging and his throat gargling manically - then in a flash the phlegm shoots out like a bullet but I don't see it land. I've never seen anyone spit so far. Cardiff sums up my surprised gaze and cackling in delight at the obvious success of his party trick, he stomps Grunt's left boot for a change.

Only 15 minutes to go and the thin platform rapidly fills up. Old Mr. Bristol wearing a cap that seems on a level with my waist and puffing flavoured tobacco from a pipe almost as long as he is. Plain and Pregnant Miss Yate who slinks round the small control shed for a rolly fix, looking around with guilty challenging eyes. College skivers A, B and C competing for the skinniest jeans prize. Wanna-be Miss Marple, prim and beady with a tightly rolled umbrella held firmly in black-gloved hands. And Miss Beauty Prize Queen with fluttering inviting lashes. This last arrival finally silences Cardiff and puts an end to the stomping as his mouth falls open. Grunt grunts and then gruffly nudges Cardiff and laughs 'stop staring, she's not gonna have an ugly piece of shit like you' and he stomps Cardiff's right boot.

Sat Nag

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Don’t always trust your handy little electronic co-pilot!

It may seem like the world’s best invention since kitchen towels but let me take you briefly to the dark side.

Having often hankered after a magical, time-saving, stress-saving satellite navigation system of my own, one dropped right into my hands at the most unexpected of moments, lent in a moment of seemingly genuine generosity to cover a number of previously unchartered trips.

I should have been suspicious right from the start, for the machine clearly had a little black soul all of its very own and for trip number one it didn’t want to give an alternative route from A to B. ‘Trust me’, it whispered, ‘choose my route...which is the only route you want to go’. At this stage of the game I still had some of my own rationality remaining and I chose to go my own route – mostly because I had a pretty good idea of where I ought to end up (I had already spent some time studying the map and writing out each journey step in black marker pen and bluetacked it to the dashboard. I left the sat nav on just for fun...to see how long it would take to re-adjust to my route. The soothing sat voice seemed to get more and more irritated with my navigational deviance until halfway down the M5 it announced in disgust ‘no route recognized for your chosen destination’ before turning itself off.

Bad hair day I figured. Anyway – without giving it much of a second thought I set off on journey number 2 without actually consulting the map at all (unless a brief look at google map to check journey estimated time counts) and I submitted my will entirely to that of my co-pilot, being slowly seduced, mesmerised by the soft audio instructions that apparently favoured the unconventional pathways of the 21st Century UK road network.

Thus I was driven through a convoluting succession of tiny hamlets, most of which seemed to have some form of ‘bottom’ in their name, down muddy tracks and across wild crags and hilltops. For a moment I was in love with the machine – this was surely a much more spiritually enriching way to travel. An hour later I still hadn’t hit the expected motorway and really had no idea how far north I had travelled, and my hands became a little clammy. An hour after that my throat seemed painfully dry. Upon reaching hamlet number 439 I pulled over and searched for it on the map, I searched ever page of the UK and Chanel Isles but I was clearly way off the map. I could only close my eyes and keep going, bound to a spell that must surely break sometime before the next day dawned. And so it did... just as I began to wonder whether I had sold my soul to the devil.

A lucky escape.

So why did I let the same trick be performed upon me again..?.. some days later. Why laugh at other’s mistakes and not learn from your own?
Perhaps like the say about childbirth you forget just how painful it all was ... sooner than you expect.