And a Happy New Year!

I’ve been away. You probably didn’t notice, it being Christmas and all that. Presents to buy, overtime to work, Xmas Parties, New Year Sales.  Being a Pompey lad I headed for the Home of Dickensian Christmas itself – Portsmouth;  where the man himself was born.   – ah, the wonders of Yuletide.

I needed the Xmas break to steady my nerves after pitting my wits against the ISP.  No that’s not a new political party – it’s  ‘tech speak’ for ‘Internet Service Provider’, which in itself is ‘posh speak’ for ‘Pain in the A**e’.  I’ve been without an Internet connection in Bonn since  November 11 when in a fit of foolishness we decided to switch provider.

“7 to 10 days” we were told by the informed people at Telekom. That’s what it takes between finishing an old Internet provider and starting a new one.   It was a tiny bit annoying then to be still playing ‘good cop, bad cop’ with GMX and Telekom in late December; especially since both purported to be the Good Cop. “We’ve freed the line – but Telekom have to take it over” (GMX). We’ve got everything ready but GMX haven’t freed the line” (Telekom), “But GMX tell me they HAVE freed the line!” (me), “Well they haven’t” (Telekom), “Well can’t YOU speak to them?” (me), “Oh no, we’re not allowed to speak directly to competitors. We can only wait until they free the line” (Telekom), “But they have… aaahh!!!” (me)

So,  having gotten that off my chest,  Christmas in England at my sisters would be relaxation. A dial-up modem centered around Windows Millennium Edition is as close to ‘no internet’ as you can get and still have electrical sockets in the house. Of course I still had those notorious British party poopers ‘the weather’ and ‘British Rail Networks’ to contend with, and boy, were they out gunning for me!

My friend David had decided to ‘let the train take the strain’ and consequently gave up his rail journey home to the UK for Xmas at Düsseldorf. The Channel Tunnel had unaccountably swallowed a couple of trains and Britain had wisely decided not to risk losing any more of its historic rolling stock to this untameable monster. Rumours abounded that the trains had broken down and the passengers would walk out one end or the other eventually – but even so I was glad to have chosen EasyJet myself;   until they couldn’t get the terminal door open that is, and we had six recounts because of a missing passenger.    I guess that was pretty good going though compared to the thousands missing between Belgium and Britain at the time. Whether they found the missing Herr Leon/Lion/LeOnne or just decided to stop looking for him I will never know.  Finally we were safely airborn.  Enroute to London, and finding out if  Starbucks coffee tastes different at altitude.

Gatwick is a strange experience. Everything seems close together and gives the appearance that all will consequently go smoothly and quickly.  It’s all superficial of course.  The Auto ticket machines that accept Sterling and Euro actually are indeed multi currency – but only in that they don’t actually accept ANY currency whatsoever. Or not the three machines I chose anyway. It was a twenty minute wait to buy my ticket from a human being but his words were comforting – “next direct train to Portsmouth in ten minutes from platform three”. My euphoria lasted six steps. These took me to the foot of an electronic timetable that told me the Portsmouth train was cancelled and another six steps that took me to a railway employee who told me the next direct train would likely be in ten hours not minutes. Snow on the line and all that… What I needed he told me was to go to station A,  get a train there to station B,  and from there get a train to C,   from where I could get a train to Guildford which would put me on a train directly to Portsmouth. (assuming of course that none of these was running more than five minutes late). It was therefore somewhat galling two trains later to be standing on platform 1 of station B and hear that the direct train from Gatwick to Portsmouth was arriving at platform 3.   A couple of plucky Octegenerians headed down the steps with cases in hand as fast as their arthritis would allow before a world-weary cry went up from others behind “It’s gone!”.

So it was that I discovered Reigate for the first time.   Well, platform one in Reigate anyway, and was re-associated with the British Dunkirk spirit. How we all chuckled knowingly as the stationmaster announced that the next train arriving would be the Guildford to Victoria Fast Train before drily adding that when it would arrive, and at which platform “I have absolutely no idea”. Yes, we Brits do desperation rather well I think. Something to thank years of British Rail for I suppose.

Christmas Day itself was spent with family, good friends, and bad toothache. Boxing Day was spent trying to arrange an emergency dentist. The advertised number put me through to another number which promised I would be called back within the hour by a qualified nurse who would advise. The promised call-back came with 30 seconds to spare before the hour was up and consisted of twenty minutes and as many questions about how, where and why I was in pain;  at the end of which I was told to phone another number to arrange an emergency appointment. The number I got was identical to the one I had called at the very start which had connected me to the conversation I had just finished having.

I resorted to my fall-back position of paracetamol which in itself had been hard to acquire. The assistant at Boots was unable to serve me until the pharmacist returned and passed the time waiting by asking if I had ever taken this medication before. I pointed out that in my youth I could buy one hundred such tablets in a glass bottle as long as I was tall enough to reach them on the shelf. Her expression suggested she had trouble grasping the notion of a glass bottle, never mind a hundred aspirin for a shilling.

The emergency dentist I finally saw rubbed some antibacterial gunge on my gum, charged me GBP 16.50 and sent me on my way with a prescription for Antibiotics costing GBP 7.00. Here in Germany of course you take a prescription into the Chemist and they usually give you a ready made preparation which, if you’re lucky, costs only twice as much as it would cost off the shelf. In Britain though you wait for a PHARMACIST.   Remember them?  There’s something unsettlingly medieval about waiting for someone to actually make up your tablets. I always imagine some Asterix like druid grinding out powders and throwing magical herbal roots into a pot before making loud incantations to his God. The only assistance this particular Merlin required for his potions was a teabag which meant I had a twenty minute wait until his break was over and time to check out what a modern British chemist sells. My eye caught a notice claiming an appliance that was guaranteed to stop snoring. It involved the use of electrodes attached to the snorers body. Applying sufficient electrical current would very likely stop your other half from snoring indefinitely I mused.

The upshot of all this was that on the last day of my holiday I felt right as rain. Which was just as well, since I had a date once again with that twin threat of British travellers doom messrs ’snow’ and ‘Railway’. So now I’m back – just don’t ask me how I spent Christmas…

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