REWEN TREMETHICK
Rewan is a semi-bearded writer with tight jeans and a sometimes irrepressible need for surrealist comic metaphors. When not writing in his professional capacity as a freelance copywriter, he is working on various fictional pieces. His debut novel, Fallen on Good Times, about the soft-boiled paranormal detective Laslo Kane, is due to be published in March 2014 by Paddy’s Daddy Publishing.
THESE BOOTS WERE MADE FOR TALKIN': TRAINS
Rewan talks about the well-known annoyance of trains in the latest instalment of his TBWMFT column.
BY REWEN TREMETHICK
Over the weekend, I spent nearly 12 hours on trains. It’s hard not to brag, really. I bet you’re jealous.
I do like a train journey. There’s something nice about gliding along through the countryside in a cosy metal tube while chomping on Minstrels. Or, at least, there should be. The reality is rather different.
Firstly, trains aren’t built for people like me, i.e. people who aren’t Hobbits. At around 6 foot tall, I am certainly no giant. But tell that to First Great Western. Every train journey I am doomed to be folded almost double, listening to my knees, wondering how many hours before my stop I will need to begin the tricky process of extracting myself.
The rail companies never seem too good at maths. There’s 400million people on this platform, and what comes rattling around the corner? Two coaches. Two. Sodding. Coaches. It’s like showing a matchbox to an elephant and then going, ‘Get in.’
Secondly, I live in Cornwall. The trains here are so old, you wouldn’t believe trains had actually been invented around the time ours were built. Like a third child, Cornish rail exists thanks to the hand-me-downs of its bigger, more established brothers. Every train is delayed, because every now and then the driver has to climb down from the cabin and feed the donkey that pulls the whole thing another carrot.
I overheard a guard telling a passenger a few months ago that the train we were on was thirty years old. That might not seem like much at first, until you realised that not many people still drive a 30 year old car. Bearing in mind the reason that he was giving out that information was because the door wouldn’t shut. You wouldn’t get that blasé about a plane door that didn’t shut.
Thirdly, of course, is the families. There is always a family having a picnic on any given train. On a quantum level, this family exists in every point in space at every point in time. So, no matter whether it’s 6am or 3.30pm, you’re bound to hear:
“Jack?! JACK! Molly – get Jack. Jack! Do you want a sandwich? A SANDWICH! No we don’t have jam. We’ve got cheese. CHEESE. Molly, tell Jack we’ve got cheese.”
They shout the entire menu down the carriage, but as soon as you go over and ask for some Hula Hoops, they look at you like you’re a pervert.