Back from Fishing
Things seem to be picking up. People are commenting so they must be reading right? Uh-Oh, now I really have to start saying something. I'm going to try and come at it always from a writing angle but that said, sometimes things just happen that are fun to share...like the other Thursday.
Recently, Susan Hill posted a great 'day in the life' story on her site. I was thinking of doing the same but thought I ought to wait for a day of interest to occur. That day was the other Thursday.
Music is important to me. It's a focal point of my life and a major crutch to my writing. I never would have written 'Asboville' in the way it's written if I'd not heard Tom McRae's 'Just Like Blood' album. For the last few years, on perhaps a 'one a month' regularity I've been going to London to watch live music. My brother lives in the city so it's a chance for us to get together, grab a bite to eat and a beer and watch a favourite band/musician. Until about two years ago I was working in Maidstone so it was pretty easy to jump into the car and drive up, but now I work the other way on the east coast of Kent so there's another hour on the journey. Not only that but I work until a later time. Still, driving is the best option. If you're trying to be 'green'/environmentally conscious and wondering why, perhaps this story will explain.
I live in Canterbury. I love it but despite its proximity to London, getting there by train is no fun, especially of an evening. Knowing that the gig was in Brick Lane, so pretty central, and fearing there would be nowhere to park I started looking into getting up to the city (and back) by train. Now I do like trains and travelling by train but to travel from Canterbury to London and back means leaving London just after 11pm in order to get home and that can mean missing the end of gigs, something I hate to do (and let's face it, shouldn't have to). To get around this, I drove to Ashford, where I could get back to if I left London at 11.30pm.
Still with me?
I left work, drove home, changed, grabbed my ticket and headed for Ashford. It was 5pm and the train was at 5.43pm. I got to Ashford station at 5.38pm to discover I had no change for the parking machine. Still, there was time. I dashed to the shop, bought chewing gum with a £5 note, raced back, bought my parking ticket, stuck it on the iside of the windscreen, sprinted to the train and made it with 20 seconds to spare. The helpful guard told me I could buy my ticket on the train. I sat down, sweating, took a breath and reached into my pocket for my gig ticket. It wasn't there. It wasn't in my bag either, or on the floor. In fact it had vanished into thin air. Staying cool I called See Tickets. I explained that I'd lost my ticket, that I was on a train, heading to the gig. Then I got cut off. Growing more frustrated I called again, miraculously getting the same female employee, who told me it wasn't a problem. She would call the venue (93 Feet East) and I could pick a replacement ticket up on the door. I thanked her profusely.
Later, after meeting my brother and devouring a McDonalds (I know, I know but needs must...) we headed through the balmy (and barmy) streets of the London Bangladeshi community, dodging curry vendors apologetically (while wishing we'd waited to eat...), arriving at 93 Feet East to discover a 'Sold Out' sign and a queue of frustrated hopefuls.
"I'm collecting my ticket," got me to the door and through it where I met two bemused staff who listened to my sorry tale (let's face it, it was a tall story...lost my ticket while running for the train...yeah right!) before explaining that there were no tickets to be collected from See Tickets. I was on the verge of doing something nasty when the manager appeared. After listening to my story again, he finally agreed to let me in.
Story over? Not quite. David Kitt played until almost 11pm (see, I would have missed the end if I'd caught the train from Canterbury). As it was I caught the 11.37 from London Bridge to Ashford, shared a packed carriage with a bunch of drunken 'Thursday is the new Friday' commuters and fell asleep somewhere around Tonbridge. When I awoke the carriage was quiet, just me and my thoughts, until I detected a low rumbling sound coming from somewhere ahead of me. I peeked out over the seats, wondering where it was coming from, but there was nobody in the carriage. It wasn't until I got up from my seat just one station before Ashford and made my way to the door that I discovered a slumped gentlemen in a forward seat, his IPOD glued to his ears, snoring away contendedly. He was a little surprised when he woke to find himself fast approaching Ashford. In fact he was so surprised that he jumped up and raced to the door in a half-sleep state, where he started pressing the 'open' button frantically. I had to calm him down and explain that Pluckley was no place to be getting off a train after midnight (least of all because it holds a place in the Guinness Book of Records for being the most haunted village in England). He bemusedly agreed and the last I saw of him he was climbing into a Taxi, presumably heading off to Sevenoaks or somewhere (on double rate no less). I, meanwhile, arrived home at 1.30am, vowing never, ever to go to an evening gig by train again...
The point of all this? Well there isn't one really, except to say 'welcome back' to my blog and 'thankyou' to the manager of 93 Feet East for letting me see the wonderful David Kitt and equally wonderful Jape. Less 'thanks' go to See Tickets who could try harder when genuine people make genuine mistakes (however foolish) and Network South East who could provide a service to London of an evening that reflects the needs of the 21st Century homo-sapien...
Recently, Susan Hill posted a great 'day in the life' story on her site. I was thinking of doing the same but thought I ought to wait for a day of interest to occur. That day was the other Thursday.
Music is important to me. It's a focal point of my life and a major crutch to my writing. I never would have written 'Asboville' in the way it's written if I'd not heard Tom McRae's 'Just Like Blood' album. For the last few years, on perhaps a 'one a month' regularity I've been going to London to watch live music. My brother lives in the city so it's a chance for us to get together, grab a bite to eat and a beer and watch a favourite band/musician. Until about two years ago I was working in Maidstone so it was pretty easy to jump into the car and drive up, but now I work the other way on the east coast of Kent so there's another hour on the journey. Not only that but I work until a later time. Still, driving is the best option. If you're trying to be 'green'/environmentally conscious and wondering why, perhaps this story will explain.
I live in Canterbury. I love it but despite its proximity to London, getting there by train is no fun, especially of an evening. Knowing that the gig was in Brick Lane, so pretty central, and fearing there would be nowhere to park I started looking into getting up to the city (and back) by train. Now I do like trains and travelling by train but to travel from Canterbury to London and back means leaving London just after 11pm in order to get home and that can mean missing the end of gigs, something I hate to do (and let's face it, shouldn't have to). To get around this, I drove to Ashford, where I could get back to if I left London at 11.30pm.
Still with me?
I left work, drove home, changed, grabbed my ticket and headed for Ashford. It was 5pm and the train was at 5.43pm. I got to Ashford station at 5.38pm to discover I had no change for the parking machine. Still, there was time. I dashed to the shop, bought chewing gum with a £5 note, raced back, bought my parking ticket, stuck it on the iside of the windscreen, sprinted to the train and made it with 20 seconds to spare. The helpful guard told me I could buy my ticket on the train. I sat down, sweating, took a breath and reached into my pocket for my gig ticket. It wasn't there. It wasn't in my bag either, or on the floor. In fact it had vanished into thin air. Staying cool I called See Tickets. I explained that I'd lost my ticket, that I was on a train, heading to the gig. Then I got cut off. Growing more frustrated I called again, miraculously getting the same female employee, who told me it wasn't a problem. She would call the venue (93 Feet East) and I could pick a replacement ticket up on the door. I thanked her profusely.
Later, after meeting my brother and devouring a McDonalds (I know, I know but needs must...) we headed through the balmy (and barmy) streets of the London Bangladeshi community, dodging curry vendors apologetically (while wishing we'd waited to eat...), arriving at 93 Feet East to discover a 'Sold Out' sign and a queue of frustrated hopefuls.
"I'm collecting my ticket," got me to the door and through it where I met two bemused staff who listened to my sorry tale (let's face it, it was a tall story...lost my ticket while running for the train...yeah right!) before explaining that there were no tickets to be collected from See Tickets. I was on the verge of doing something nasty when the manager appeared. After listening to my story again, he finally agreed to let me in.
Story over? Not quite. David Kitt played until almost 11pm (see, I would have missed the end if I'd caught the train from Canterbury). As it was I caught the 11.37 from London Bridge to Ashford, shared a packed carriage with a bunch of drunken 'Thursday is the new Friday' commuters and fell asleep somewhere around Tonbridge. When I awoke the carriage was quiet, just me and my thoughts, until I detected a low rumbling sound coming from somewhere ahead of me. I peeked out over the seats, wondering where it was coming from, but there was nobody in the carriage. It wasn't until I got up from my seat just one station before Ashford and made my way to the door that I discovered a slumped gentlemen in a forward seat, his IPOD glued to his ears, snoring away contendedly. He was a little surprised when he woke to find himself fast approaching Ashford. In fact he was so surprised that he jumped up and raced to the door in a half-sleep state, where he started pressing the 'open' button frantically. I had to calm him down and explain that Pluckley was no place to be getting off a train after midnight (least of all because it holds a place in the Guinness Book of Records for being the most haunted village in England). He bemusedly agreed and the last I saw of him he was climbing into a Taxi, presumably heading off to Sevenoaks or somewhere (on double rate no less). I, meanwhile, arrived home at 1.30am, vowing never, ever to go to an evening gig by train again...
The point of all this? Well there isn't one really, except to say 'welcome back' to my blog and 'thankyou' to the manager of 93 Feet East for letting me see the wonderful David Kitt and equally wonderful Jape. Less 'thanks' go to See Tickets who could try harder when genuine people make genuine mistakes (however foolish) and Network South East who could provide a service to London of an evening that reflects the needs of the 21st Century homo-sapien...
posted by Danny Rhodes at 5:11 PM
1 Comments:
There now that wasn't difficult was it:-)
I've been waiting to do a day like this too Danny,they don't happen when you want them to.
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