On track to Christmas
What could go wrong on a round trip to the city to celebrate the festive season with colleagues?
Season’s greetings to you, my capricious old friend NSW State Rail. It just isn’t Christmas without a few jokes and capers, now is it? What could go wrong on a round trip to the city on a week night to celebrate the festive season with colleagues? No issues in the getting there but there were to be no happy returns.
The Friday night timetable is a thing of utter fantasy as trains heading home on my regional northern line are not running. Nothing on signboards, no announcements, not a staff member to be found in the labyrinth of tunnels, stairways and sharp corners. But the new roof on the Grand Concourse is rather swell, a great swoop of a thing that makes me imagine I’m about to board the Eurostar from London St Pancras to Paris.
As I ponder what now seems like a former life in which such things were easily achieved, a chap appears in a uniform. I flag him down, as it were. He has a beguiling French accent, which is eerie, all things considered. We both do a lot of shoulder shrugging and off he flies with a promise to find out more but, meantime, passengers should take a train to Hornsby and await further developments. Bon voyage!
My husband, who has an injured knee and hates trains, is muttering about me and life in general as we head slowly towards the suburban services. The lift is not working; he’s in enormous pain. There are announcements that cut in and out. I make mad dashes up and down between platforms checking departures. He sits on a step.
Finally, a cleaner tells me and a few other lost souls that there are buses from Hornsby headed north because of scheduled track work or industrial action, or maybe both, and she’s washing her hands of it all. Quite literally.
But first, the train to Hornsby, stopping at least 12 stations, all seemingly not much more than a few blocks apart. Husband sleeps.
Ah, the promised bus. There it is at Hornsby station but won’t be departing for 45 minutes because it’s waiting for passengers from other trains. There is a minor mutiny, not wholly led by me, and voila, apparently we can go right now. Allons!
Driver (not French) is a charmer.
Journey time to city: 75 minutes. Journey time home: three hours.
“I told you we should have driven …” The husband continues to rail against the heavens.
