Travelling North

Ladies and Gentlemen, I am well over planes. I feel slightly blasphemous saying that considering my brother has dedicated his life to them but still, considering how many of them I've been on lately the thought of getting on another one made me want to scream.
It was for that reason, when faced with a the decision as to how to get to Newcastle Upon Tyne to see the family for Christmas, I chose instead to take to the road.


There are two ways of travelling it seems, fast and slightly agonising or slow and languid. I like to take the slower road, if I can get somewhere by boat, bus or train then generally I will pick one of those three. Maybe its the vast expanses of time one can spend starring out at passing scenery, (preferably moors of some description or a steely grey sea) through a rain spotted window while contemplating life, the universe, everything.
In an airplane the journey feels a bit more detached, vast expanses of land, continents, oceans are covered without the gift of being able to notice the shift in scenery. I like also, with the slower road, of knowing that I will get there when I get there, that nothing is rushed, all time is mine and I can read a book or do some writing or find the perfect song on my MP3 player to match the passing view.
We got back from Sweden on the Thursday night and not having to go to a second interview for one of the jobs I'm trying for until after Christmas I decided that I might as well take off and see the family on the Friday. This was a trip I hadn't made in about 10 years when I was a youngster of 20 and life seemed much more complicated than I've subsequently realised that it is. I'd spent a bit of time in Geordie Land then, going on little jaunts from my Aunty's place in Percy Main down to the Royal Quays to see the boats in or wander around the discount outlets that used to be frequented by boat loads of Norwegians shipped in from Bergen doing their Christmas shopping and escaping the high cost of living over there. I caught that boat once, back to Bergen from Newcastle with the freshly shopped Norwegians, they taught me to macarena and we got caught in a force 9 gale in the north sea, though the two were entirely unrelated. They've stopped that route now, to much hue and cry. You can only get the ferry to Amsterdam which I shall do later in the year with my trusty Aunt as my chaperone, I shall be Henry Pulling and she shall be.........my Aunt. I had resigned myself to tracing the route on the Metro from Percy Main to Monument via Google Earth but now I was preparing myself for free time and Christmas where I could reacquaint myself with the haunts of my almost youth.
As I sat on the coach speeding through the rain spiked night listening to The Presets I saw the Angel of the North come into view and it felt a little bit like coming home. Aww. Now to the slight drawbacks of coach travel. It is an unfortunate reality that toilets on long haul bus trips should only be entered only in the event of a dire emergency, and even then you should probably have a good long think about it. On my way up to Newcastle I made it a point to avoid the coach toilet, thinking instead of the welcoming marble facilities available to me once I got to Newcastle Central Station, facilities that were big enough to swing several cats in and would not drench me in the event of sudden breaking. I held on. And it was cold, which makes a pressing urge somewhat more pressing. But, there were certain factors that I had not included in my formulation of this plan. I was arriving in Newcastle on a Friday night, everybody would be out getting pished to greet the weekend, it was the last weekend before Christmas and most people would not have to work next week which would multiply the revellers exponentially and finally the third factor was one that I could not have hoped to calculate, the good people at Newcastle Rail Station in their infinite wisdom being fully cognisant of factor one and factor two decided to close off ALL the toilets instead leaving only one night toilet open, One. At the risk of repeating myself, one. Let me introduce to you the worst toilet in Britain.
Imagine say, a thousand drunk people, falling down, inappropriately affectionate, bad hand eye coordination, drunk people. Imagine putting them in a tiny, poorly lit space and expecting them to hit a target, imagine them missing, imagine then that some unforseen hand picks up that tiny, poorly lit urine soaked toilet and then shakes it like a snow dome. Then imagine really needing to use that toilet and lining up behind 10 drunk people at midnight in 0 C and having to listen to each and every one of them comment on how horrible the toilet was before adding to the horror and taking forever to get out again. But given the length of the queue waiting for cabs out the front of the station it was clear that this was not a matter that could wait. I would have taken a photo for you but I would rather spare you it. I did however make it safe and sound and, after some rather dexterous toilet gymnastics, entirely stranger wee free, to Aunty Mary's in Percy Main. Was a nice quiet Christmas really, much time spent watching Aunty fall asleep watching sky (which was sweet), heading up to Newcastle on the metro and wandering down by the river Tyne. Had Christmas Day at my cousin Stephen's where he put on a fabulous feast of sweet potato soup, turkey with all the trimmings and your choice of desserts, amazing soup, I memorised the recipe, when you have me in human form ask me to make it for you . I'm very lucky to have family over here, particularly at Christmas. I also indulged a little in the post Christmas sales and picked up some very cheap high quality runners that will ensure I stay upright in these icy conditions as well as some marvellous Marks and Spencer bras. I say old chap, absolutely spiffing brassieres what.
In our next instalment, where will I work? Where will I live? The call of the wales and is there an upside to all this cold weather? Merry Christmas and Happy New year to you all.