An unintentional train journey

My two daughters and their friend came to stay with us in Cornwall for a week. It was a joy to have them and we hope they enjoyed themselves. The weather wasn't marvellous for August, but then it hasn't been marvellous for August for a very long time. Still, the girls enjoyed three days on the beach, two days shopping and one day at the Monkey Sanctuary. Not to mention their father's lip-smacking barbecues, ahem. Sadly, after the fastest-passing week in history it was time for them to return home - on the train.

I drove them to the station, waited with them on the platform and the train arrived - a mere minute late. Not bad. They clambered aboard carriage 'D' and headed for their reserved seats. I observed them through the window and walked along with them on the platform. I expected them to find their seats, settle in and return my waving as the train departed. But, no. They carried on, right through the carriage to the other end. Something wasn't right. I boarded the train to ascertain the problem and, as I had half-expected, their reserved seats weren't.

At this point the guard boarded the train and closed the door behind him. He asked if there was a problem. Ah, I thought, a kind, helpful gentlemen who will sort out this little faux pas. After all, my daughters have more than three hours on this train and, only rightly, should sit in their reserved seats. The conversation went something like this...

"Is there a problem?" How helpful of him.
"My daughters have reserved seats on this train, but there are people sitting in them."
"There are no reserved seats on this train." Deadpan. Emotionless. Almost robotic.
"But my daughters have reserved their seats. They are going to be on this train for more than three hours."
"There are no reserved seats on this train."
"What do you mean, there are no reserved seats on this train? My daughters have reserved them."
"There are no reserved seats on this train."
"Oh, for Goodness' sake. Well, girls you'll just have to find somewhere else to sit."

I turned to get off the train, but the guard held his arm across the door, a barrier to my safe exit.

"Excuse me, please. I need to get off."
"I can't open the door, once the train is moving, sir."
"Well, the train isn't moving, so if you don't mind, I'd like to get off."
"I can't open the door, sir."
"Well, I'm not travelling on this train. I need to get off."
"How am I supposed to know that, sir?"
"Now look, I wouldn't be on this train at all if my daughter's seats had been reserved, as they should have been."
"I can't open the door, sir."
"I'm trying to help my daughters, who aren't used to travelling by train. They have reserved seats. You haven't reserved them. Now, just let me off this train!"
"I can't open the door , sir."
"Oh, don't be ridiculous, just open the door."
"I've pressed the yellow button now, sir. That means I can't open the door."
"Well, unpress it. I need to get off."
"I can't open the door, sir, once I've pressed the yellow button."
"The train isn't moving. You could have let me off by now. Will you please just open the door!"
"I've told you, sir, I can't open the door."
"You have to be kidding me!"

I was becoming a little irate. If I asked you to imagine what a jobsworth on the railways looked like, you'd have this guy to a tee. No need for me to describe his mealy-mouthed officiousness, his prim spectacles, his immaculate uniform. I believe he picked up on my growing irritability and somehow sensed a tirade of abuse coming his way, albeit toned down profanity-wise for the benefit of my daughter's tender lug holes. And just as I opened my mouth to allow my vitriol to flow...

"You can go down to the front of the train. There are plenty of seats down there - in first class."

Well, the girl's eyes lit up. They didn't need asking twice and off they charged down the train, towing their overnight bags behind them, oblivious to their nudging and bashing of other passengers on the way. As my girls disappeared rapidly towards first class, I turned to the guard, the wind taken out of my sails. How could I harangue him now? Before I could say anything, he apologised - officiously.

"I'm sorry, but there really is nothing I can do once the yellow button has been pressed."

I sighed deeply, rejected the idea of suggesting where he could deposit his yellow button and shuffled off down the train to catch up with my upgraded daughters. They had settled in very comfortably either side of a large table in cosseting leather seats. They were within six paces of the buffet bar, which pleased them immensely and whilst the rest of the train was packed, only two other passengers occupied the entire carriage. They were straining to find the right balance between concern for my plight and outright hysterics at it, seeming to settle for wide grins and raised eyebrows and, bless them, managing not to laugh (which is more than I can say for my wife when she found out what had happened via a rudimentary telephone message).  The girls would have a very cosy journey without the intrusion of pleb-class passenger noise.

I, on the other hand, would be sitting with my girls until the next stop - Plymouth - a 25-minute journey. Okay, I was in First Class, but I couldn't quite manage to see or feel the benefit of that at the time. My only consolation was to be spending another 25 minutes with my girls, albeit under unusual circumstances. Oh, and crossing the Tamar bridge by train - the first, and hopefully last time I would do that - except for the return journey of course, but you know what I mean.

So, I waved my girls goodbye, spent 45 minutes in the grey, perfunctory environs of Plymouth train station, sipping at an over-priced latte and caught the return train which, I noted, was liberally sprinkled with RESERVED SEATS!