A Wild Weekend

The conductor breenges through the sliding door and sets about turfing people from their seats.
Make way, move it fatty. Beat it. She rearranges the furniture to accommodate these two geezers and a shit load of gear.

Now I had only moments earlier bagged myself one of those coveted table seats with the socket for my laptop. For I planned to get properly smashed out of my box on pink wine and watch Atonement on DVD.
Alas Atonement went unwatched, but I had one of the most interesting train journeys in a long time.

I had missed the earlier train by 5 seconds. I swear that guy cackled as he flicked the switch and closed the doors right in my face. I had two choices. Gracefully walk back down the platform heading straight for the nearest pub and indulge in a spot of early evening power drinking or crumple in a heap right there and blub like a baby for the next ten minutes. Take a guess dear reader.

By the time I actually got on the train I was ready for a session. I knew it was never going to be peaceful, but these to geezers just took over the place. They had more gear stuffed into rucksacks, soft bags, hard bags and I've never seen so many bungee cords wtf?!?

So my bottle of pink wine is opened and I neck the first glass, ahhhhhh and breath.
I am minding my own business, writing up some notes for the Clyde Stride runners and marshalls. And these two are jabbering on Olympic athletes this photo shoot that and my ears prick up. Oooo that sounds cool. Now it's hard not to listen in, especially when folk are sitting next to you. Honest, Your Honor. Next thing I know we're engaging in a spot of banter. I was warned before that I've not to talk to strange men on trains; it gets me into trouble (more about that later in the year).

Five minutes later this dude casually walks down the carriage. It's only the guy they've just been shooting. He's familiar to me but I can't place him. So he ditches his first class seat to comes and slum it in cattle class with the photographers. The penny drops. Its Leon Taylor Olympic diving silver medalist and mentor to wee Tom Daly. He's into sports psychology and the next thing I know we're blethering about ultra marathons. All very surreal. The rest of the journey passes in a flash while I am entertained with witty banter, political (ahem) debate and stories of frozen hair.

My weekend got progressively crazier. The Pirate and I travelled up town, north of the river no less to attend the most unique gig ever. The incredibly talented Caitlin Rose was gigging in a cinema in Islington and we had standing tickets right next to the bar. For future reference you need more that 5 minutes to drink a whole bottle of wine and still catch the night bus home. It was around this time I indulged in my only running of the weekend. Up and down streets checking bus stops for an N19. She was amazing, if only slightly pissed. Much the same as the rest of us.

A slightly delicate Pirate drove us home from our city crash pad in time for a quick shower and head back up town, north of the river again to Camden. Twice in two days I'm surprised it didn't give him a nose bleed. We were to meet up with a bunch of his old mates from his rockabilly days. Now I've never been to a rockabilly club, I'm too young you see, and not wanting to look out of place I asked for advice on what to wear.
'Aucht I'm only wearing my jeans. You do the same.' I'm so glad I completely ignored this instruction and went for all out glamour. The tightest fitting tiny waisted below knee dress I could find. The reddest lipstick I could lay my hands on and the biggest hair I could fashion.

Talk about double standards. The blokes had followed the Pirates lead and were dressed identically in manky blue jeans, boots, and tee shirts. The girls however......weet woo.
I had a nice time, the blokes were all lovely and made me feel very welcome, but I like my fella scrubbed up well in a uniform ;-)

For your viewing pleasure check out the amazing Miss Caitlin Rose