My love for reading, so freshly alluded to on this platform, proved something of a hazardous occupation one recent weekend. Things had started off promisingly enough: my younger son, to his great excitement, was finally seeing the realisation of a plan cooked up with his sister some weeks previously, to visit her in her Exeter flat and stay overnight sans parents.
Growing up though he may be, he likes nothing more than to get one of his sisters to himself, and enjoy some unadulterated mollycoddling (and, no doubt, an escape from the less indulgent clutches of his sharp-eyed mother).
He had been chattering about the proposal at every given opportunity, and was keen to work out all the details, as is his wont. I knew that a small but significant part of the attraction lay in the train journey between our house and his sister’s: the railway is his favourite method of travel, and the prospect always fills him with happiness. At his tender age, I am reluctant for him to travel alone, even for a relatively short journey.
Luckily, thanks to the railcard discount that applies when we travel together, fares are reasonable, and eliminate the need for parking - always a bonus. Hence, I informed my son, I would go along for the ride, spend a few hours with the two of them, and return alone. My son was sanguine, but swiftly demanded promises from me that I wouldn’t stay too long and thereby encroach upon his precious time with his sister; oaths solemnly sworn, he made the necessary preparations for his trip (choosing outfits, packing, and selecting which of his favourite toys to take), and we both began to look forward to the outing.
The auspicious day eventually arrived, and my son and I were soon settled comfortably on the train. I had a book with me for the return passage, knowing I would be riding solo on my way home, but it stayed in my bag on that first leg of the trip. The scenic aspect afforded by the journey as the route hugs the picturesque coastline is always a pleasant sight, and the miles zipped past pleasantly (despite our proximity to a group of sweary males; fortunately, my son was immersed in the music coursing through his headphones, and was oblivious to their colourful language. Or so I hope).
Apparently unscathed, we arrived at our destination station and exited the carriage, ready to take the next stage on foot. After an intermittently drizzly morning, we were pleased to see the sun had graciously made an appearance and was beaming down upon us most benignly.
The stroll between station and flat is a pleasant one: a combination of prettily-housed residential streets and a public footpath. On that particular day, we encountered a friendly ginger cat en route - an unexpected bonus. When we reached the flat some 30 minutes later, my daughter greeted us with the welcome offer of a cuppa, and then we three headed into the city centre for a little light shopping. I had initially assumed I would return home by train; however, I soon realised that, as I could no longer enjoy the discount that the shared railcard offered, my journey as a solo passenger would be more costly than the outward one had been for the two of us together.
Loath to pay what seemed an unjustly expensive fare, I resolved instead to hop on a bus (or three). I bid my lovely children a fond farewell after a couple of hours - none too soon for my son, who was champing at the bit in his impatience for me to quit the scene - and, safely ensconced in my homeward-bound vehicle, I hunkered down for some blissfully uninterrupted reading time, raising my head periodically to check on the bus’s whereabouts.
I changed services at Newton Abbot, and exited the second vehicle closer to home, but still a fair walk away; a third bus would deliver me a more comfortable distance from my front door. Consulting the timetable, I confirmed that buses ran every half an hour, and I had a fifteen-minute wait; out came the book again, and I became utterly absorbed by the charming story within.
Emerging from the depths of the novel to check the time a short while later, I was astonished to observe the very bus for which I had been waiting sailing merrily past. I was dumbfounded for a moment - but I knew I really only had myself to blame; propped against the wall with my nose buried in a book, paying not the slightest heed to the world around me, I must have seemed an unlikely candidate for boarding a bus due to make an imminent arrival. Now faced with an additional half-hour gap between services, I sighed, tossed my book in my bag, swung my bag onto my shoulder, and trudged home. Reading: it’s a dangerous pastime.
