Friday, August 31, 2007


Parents 'ever so proud' p.3

It seems that exactly ten years after she died in Paris (that's 'died' spelt 'M-U-R-D-E-R-E-D if you're a Daily Express reader) Diana Spencer has achieved godhood and come back as the Patron Saint of Vehicle-Related Fuckwittery specifically to piss me off.

Exhibit A: While I managed to travel from Colindale to Charing Cross by tube without mishap, once on the train I looked for an empty seat to deposit one of my BookCrossing books, viz. The Complete Robot Stories of Isaac Asimov, one careful owner, viz. (again) me, in good nick. While I'm distracted by something else the cleaning woman from the train comes along, takes one look at the book, puts it in her rubbish sack and is off before I can get to her. It's a book! I realise the train company would probably argue that she's got to keep the train clean or else it's caserole time for her children, but surely you shouldn't throw away books that someone might have left by accident? Unless, YOU'RE CONTROLLED BY ELDRITCH BLONDE FORCES FROM BEYOND THE GRAVE!!1!

Exhibit B: The rest of the journey to Staplehurst goes without incident. Once there, my Dad isn't there to meet me. It turns out that a day before we're due to go to the Isle of Wight the car has mysteriously died. The AA man came out, fiddled about for hours and I think the problem was eventually diagnosed but it won't be fixed until Wednesday maybe. Meanwhile, can we find a car hire firm that can hire a car big enough for everything that makes up a weeks holiday at about eighteen hours notice, in Kent? Can we fuck. Obviously someone has HIRED OUT ALL THE CARS IN THE SOUTHEAST BY SUPERNATURAL MEANS!!1!

Exhibit C: So, I'm stuck in Staplehurst and need to get to Coxheath, about four miles away. Staplehurst is one of those places for which it assumes that anyone within it has access to a car. The Taxi place by the station appears to be shut. In the hour I'm there it does not open. A bus goes through once an hour. I learn this after missing the previous bus by two minutes. It's an Arriva bus. Once aboard I notice a sign asking "Does your bus driver have the X Factor? If you believe your bus driver has that little bit extra when it comes to offering great service then bus company Arriva is looking for your vote. One look at him and it's clear that the bus driver doesn't have the X-Factor. Neither does he have the Y Factor. Analyse his blood and I doubt anything human will be found within this troll. He looks like Grawp from Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix. He charges me a ridiculous amount for a ticket and we're off. I've surely been softened by a decade of living in London because the first time he brakes I fly off the seat and bang my leg against something sharp and metallic. AN IRONIC REMINDER OF HOW SHE IMPACTED WITH SHARP METALLIC THINGS A LOT FASTER TEN YEARS AND TWELVE HOURS AGO!!1! I get off halfway home and, rather than catch another bus, walk the rest of the way. I've learnt my lesson.

So, whenever something unexpected happens to your transport, or you miss a connection or end up waiting ages, you know who it is that's decided to take some time out of eternity to feck you over. People's Princess? She's back, and she's pissed.

Addendum: It looks like we've managed to hire a car which we'll collect tomorrow, and we'll travel down on Sunday. Hopefully Saint Diana's power only works on the anniversary of her death.

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