Homeward Bound, Part II: London Chaos
After the serenity of Cornwall, London clearly felt obliged to restore balance to the universe. Victoria Coach Station greeted me with military precision. My coach from Cornwall arrived exactly on time, leaving me with what I believed was a comfortable hour before boarding the 16:30 service to Stansted Airport. How wonderfully optimistic I still was.
At around 16:15, passengers began forming an orderly queue. I dutifully joined the line, expecting a routine boarding process. 16:25 came and went. No coach. 16:30 arrived. Still no coach. By 16:40 the coach finally appeared. The driver climbed aboard… and then simply sat there.
Meanwhile, the boarding staff stood chatting amongst themselves as though absolutely nothing out of the ordinary was happening. No announcement, no explanation, and certainly no information. We were apparently expected to absorb the entire situation by osmosis.
Standing in front of me were two Spanish-speaking Filipinas. Behind me stood an increasingly vocal Scottish family, equally concerned about missing their flight. I asked the ladies if they would mind saving my place in the queue while I went to seek enlightenment at the source.
I’m rather proud of myself for remaining remarkably diplomatic. Apparently, the driver was taking his legally required break and boarding would begin “about ten minutes before departure.” This information somehow hadn’t been considered important enough to share with the increasingly anxious passengers. When I relayed the news, the collective mood improved by precisely zero percent.
Meanwhile, the 17:00 coach to Stansted rolled into the next bay, and this is where reality quietly packed its bags and left the building. Both coaches suddenly opened for boarding at the same time. The boarding staff appeared utterly bewildered by the fact that everyone in my queue was waving tickets clearly stating 16:30. Somehow, and I still cannot explain this, we were herded onto the 17:00 coach instead, much to the confusion of its driver, while our original 16:30 coach mysteriously became the 17:00 departure.
Whether this represented advanced British queue management or performance art remains unclear. Apparently, “Warum einfach, wenn es auch kompliziert geht?” wasn’t just a German saying. National Express seemed to have adopted it as an operational strategy.
Either way, they managed something I hadn’t thought possible after my delightful journey out of Cornwall: they lost me as a future loyal customer in under thirty minutes.
Remember the wasp from Part I? As it turns out, everyone has a story. Her original 09:00 coach from Plymouth to Birmingham had been cancelled without notice. She’d simply been transferred onto our service to London and was now hoping to catch yet another coach north. If everything went well, she’d arrive in Birmingham around 23:30. If not, 01:00 the following morning. Suddenly, the floral thermos and family-sized bag of liquorice made perfect sense.
As for me, I’m writing these words while our coach inches its way through London’s evening rush hour. I’m grateful to have secured a seat at all, but increasingly uncertain whether I’ll actually reach Stansted before my flight. Thankfully, I’d booked Fast Track security and wasn’t checking any luggage, small victories in an otherwise increasingly unpredictable afternoon.
I’d entertained rather romantic visions of enjoying a leisurely cup of tea and perhaps a slice of cake before boarding. Instead, it appears I’ll be stress-eating the sweets I bought at the motorway services while watching Google Maps estimate my arrival time with steadily diminishing optimism.
Our next stop brought another collection of delayed and thoroughly unimpressed passengers. To complete the experience, the ticket scanner chose this precise moment to stop working as well.
What superhero is supposed to reside in London? At this point I’d happily borrow their wings, jetpack, flying vehicle, or whatever mode of transport they happened to have parked beneath an invisibility cloak somewhere in the sky. At this stage, I’d even settle for a Nimbus 3000 if it could get me to Lisbon.
On the bright side, I have now seen considerably more of London’s architecture than originally planned, albeit mostly through the window of a stationary coach. Would I ever consider moving here? That would be a resounding NO.
Well, I wanted adventure. I should probably have been more specific. My Human-to-God broadband connection appears to be glitching today. My mother always used to remind me that when you pray for something, you need to give God clear instructions. He’s busy enough without having to guess what you meant.
At this point I’ve learned never to tempt fate, so I’ll simply say this: Stay tuned.
The way this journey is unfolding, there may well be a Part III… nd possibly a Part IV. After all, I haven’t even left the UK yet.
The Frog in England Series
FrogDiva Thoughts 