London bombings five years on

Five years ago today I was running late to work. I don’t remember why but I remember having to stand on the train into London and I remember a teenage boy standing next to me. A few minutes before reaching Kings Cross station, the train stopped. We were stopped for quite some time. I noticed the boy looking a bit pale and he asked if someone would give up their seat for him. I remember this because no one gave up their seat and I was hoping to God that he didn’t get sick all over me.

The train jerked forward and once we were inside the station, the driver came over the loudspeaker and announced that there had been an incident at Liverpool Street. He sounded unsure and hesitant. Then he repeated the message louder and more firm and instructed us all to get off the train quickly and evacuate the station.

My fellow passengers groaned and muttered complaints about the need to evacuate. I’ve got a meeting in 10 minutes! Of course the station would be closed on the day of my interview!  Effing train companies! How much do we pay for this service? What a rip-off! Terrible!

Once we were herded outside the station, I made my way to the bus stop. There were loads of people standing around and crowds of people were rushing down the street from the main station. I honestly never thought it was a bombing. I stood with my headphones in, waiting and waiting and waiting some more. I tried texting Scott but my text messages wouldn’t send. I noticed all the other people waiting at the station, punching numbers on their phones, trying to call their bosses to tell them they’d be late. None of our phones were working. I never thought it was due to a bombing.

I overheard two men saying there had been incidents on the Tube. Incidents. That’s what they kept saying. I watched as the crowds got bigger and people seemed to get more agitated and antsy. A bus finally pulled up and I squeezed my way on to it. In between songs, I heard people talking about an incident at Kings Cross. Behind the bus, the crowds were pouring onto the street and the people were more panicked. And I still never thought there had been a bombing.

The bus driver announced that we were being diverted and a few minutes later,  there was a scream from the back of the bus. “Oh my God! That bus is on fire!” and “Did you see that?” and “The bus blew up!” From the sound of the blast (and now knowing what happened), the bus that blew up on 7 July 2005 was only a block away from me.

The bus I was on stopped immediately and we were all told to get off. I had only been working at my summer job for a few weeks and didn’t want to be any later than I already was. I walked the rest of the way to the office. I had no idea what had happened that morning.

There was only one other person in the office and he told me there had been bombings on the Tube and I told him about the bus. Later I would find out that one of the bombs went off on the Piccadilly line, just outside of Kings Cross – my usual route to work. Later I would also find out that the bombers came into London on the overland train I usually took. Later I would find out that the bombers got on at my same station in Bedfordshire. Later I would realize just how lucky I was to be running late on 7 July 2005.

I stayed in the office for a few hours, watching the news and waiting for some sort of public transportation to be up and running. Scott was out of town on business and had been trying to call me all morning. He had no idea I had missed my regular train and that I wasn’t on the Piccadilly line just before 9 am.  Sometime that afternoon, my mobile rang for the first time and I was able to talk to Scott for a few minutes before getting cut off.

It took me over five hours to get home that night. I walked with hundreds of people through the streets of London, marveling at the absence of cars and buses and delivery trucks. Marveling at the quiet and seemingly calm city,  but still stunned. Marveling, but still scared.

I didn’t go to work the next day. I stayed home by myself, watching the news. A few days later, police found a car at my station which they believed was linked to the bombers. CCTV footage was released showing the bombers waiting on the same platform, boarding my usual train.

I wasn’t a 7/7 victim. I wasn’t on the bus or the Tube lines that were bombed. I wasn’t on the train into London with the bombers. But I was supposed to be.

Or you could say, for some reason on that day, I wasn’t supposed to be.

Leftovers

I try really hard not to talk about work on my blog. For some people, that may be difficult because we spend more time at work than we do at home. I spend more time with my coworkers than Scott. I actually really like my coworkers so I choose to spend time with them outside of work hours as well. That’s a whole lot of my life spent associated with my job and yet I have never wanted to talk about it much because…well, nothing good ever came from talking about your job on the Internet. Am I right or am I right?

When we were on our road trip, we met people living their dreams. We met two former teachers and Fulbright Scholars who gave it all up to open a bed & breakfast in Montana and focus on their writing. Their neighbor runs a hole-in-the-wall bar next to the B&B. He used to be a lawyer in Philadelphia but one day he thought, what am I doing in this suit in this city? He wanted to wear offensive t-shirts and sell beer and be his own boss. So he did just that.

After meeting people like this for three weeks straight, it was hard to be excited about coming back to England. On top of that, a good friend of mine was in the beautiful and courageous process of donating a kidney to her cousin. I could hardly talk about it without getting choked up because, well, it seemed like everyone was doing something meaningful but me. What’s my dream going to be? How do I know what I am meant to be doing in this life? Who can I give my kidney to???

The day we returned to work after the road trip I sent Scott a melodramatic email about how I was feeling frustrated with things, feeling like I needed something more. I told him I was disappointed that I wasn’t making a difference in someone’s life.

My kind, thoughtful husband let me rant and simply wrote back, “You make a difference in mine.”

***

Two days later, I saw a coworker over lunch and she had mentioned that she had sent me details of a job she thought I’d be perfect for. I hadn’t received her message while we were traveling and figured I’d missed the deadline but what the heck, I’ll apply anyway. On paper the job looked pretty good. After my first interview, I felt really positive about it. And I guess the most important point has been mentioned already in the previous sentence. I felt good about the job. I felt something and hadn’t that been exactly what I was looking for? I wanted to feel good about what I was doing, how I was contributing, progressing, sharing, developing, living. This job excited me. I felt I could make a difference. And luckily they thought I could too because I was offered the job.

***

It’s not so different from my previous job. I’m not opening a bar or dedicating the next year to writing my first novel. I don’t think it’s my dream but I think it may spark some new ideas of who I want to be and what I want to do. What I can say is that I think I will be happy there. I think I will grow there. I think it will be good for me and I will be good for them. And that’s enough, isn’t it?

***

We went to the cinema this past weekend and we bought a bag of popcorn and Diet Coke. We ate most of the popcorn before the film even started. We left the burned bits and the half-popped pieces in the bottom of the bag. When the film was over and most everyone had left the theater, we got up to leave. I grabbed the Diet Coke but noticed Scott had left the bag of popcorn on the ground.

“Why didn’t you grab the bag of popcorn to throw away?”

Scott, busy doing something on his Blackberry, mumbled, “It doesn’t matter. People are paid to clean the theater.”

As we were walking out, I looked back at our row of seats, feeling guilty about the popcorn when I noticed a man standing where we had been sitting,  I didn’t think there was anyone left in the theater.

He looked at me and I thought he was going to shout something about us being lazy and/or rude for not throwing away our trash. But he just kept staring at me, saying nothing. As we walked towards the exit, I whispered to Scott that I thought the man was going to approach us about how we left our trash. Scott scoffed. I looked back to see the man picking up our bag of popcorn and another bag in the row in front of ours.

We left the cinema and got in our car. I watched the man walk out of the cinema and cross the road in front of us. He had our popcorn bag bundled up under his arm and two other bags folded in his hands.

“Look, he took our popcorn,” I said.

We sat there, watching this man take our leftovers and get in an old beater.

I don’t know his circumstances but I think it’s safe to assume this man was in need of food if he was going around picking up bags of burnt popcorn and half-eaten hot dogs.

Scott said, “That’s really sad. I feel sorry for him”

“Me too. I wish we had left more popcorn.”

***

I’ve been thinking about that man and the popcorn. I don’t know what the right thing would have been to do – should I have approached him with some money? Should I just pretend I didn’t see it so I wouldn’t embarrass him? I don’t know. Do people with plenty of money go around picking up other people’s leftovers just because they hate waste? In which case, should I not feel sorry for him at all?

I don’t know.

All I know is that it snapped me out of feeling sorry for myself. I am lucky enough to have a job, a home, food on the table, a loving family, the list goes on. So what if I don’t know what my big dreams are. So what. I should consider myself lucky to have the opportunity to have dreams at all. I should be so grateful I don’t need a kidney or know of anyone dear to me who needs mine.

I should feel so lucky to enjoy life’s little extras like popcorn at the movies.

Sometimes you need life to give you a good smack once in awhile.

I miss the dreams about my teeth falling out

The other night I dreamed I had a baby. I didn’t dream of the pregnancy or the labor. I just had a baby in the dream. I wasn’t freaked out or anything. It just was what it was. I named the baby Graziella but called her Grits for short.

I kept misplacing the baby.  But I wasn’t freaking out about where my baby was. It was the same sort of feeling when you misplace your favorite necklace. Funny, I could have sworn I put the baby right here. Where did that baby go? Oh well.  Baby’ll turn up eventually. Now what’s on TV?

Turns out my dad put the baby in the garage because the baby was in the way. This didn’t freak me out either. There Grits was, sitting in her carrier baby seat thingamajig, in between the cars.

We went on a trip and I put the baby in my bag. I forgot about Grits and hours later realized the baby was in my bag and she must be hungry. I asked Scott to get baby food and I tried to feed the baby. Grits wouldn’t open her eyes.  Then I realized she was dead.

I woke up and thought WTF!?! I’m dreaming of dead babies! And I named my baby Grits! Something is seriously wrong with me.

I consulted the dream dictionary on Dream Moods to figure out what it all means.

“To see a baby in your dream, signifies innocence, warmth and new beginnings”

Oooh, this could be good for me!

“If you dream that you forgot you had a baby, then it suggests that you are trying to hide your own vulnerabilities; You do not want to let others know of your weaknesses.”

Huh…ok, I’ll buy that. I am in the middle of frustrating work-related situation so…ok, Dream Moods. Hit me with another.

“If you dream that a baby is neglected, then it suggests that you are not paying enough attention to yourself. You are not utilizing your full potential. “

Exactly! That’s what I’ve been saying! I need a spa day STAT! Also, can I quote Dream Moods in my resume?

“To dream about a starving baby, represents your dependence on others. “

Well, was the baby really starving? I mean, it wasn’t like she was crying or anything. But I did have her in that bag for a long time and she did die. God, this is horrible. I can’t believe my dependency on others has driven me to have dead baby dreams! Feel sorry for me. I need attention! I need you!

“To see a dead baby in your dream, symbolizes the ending of something that is part of you.”

Oh crap. This doesn’t sound good. Where’s my new beginning?! Where is all the warmth and innocence? Stupid baby. You tricked me!

I spent a great deal of time thinking about this. It was all very fitting. There are a lot of changes happening and I have been feeling stressed, frustrated, sad, and worried about what is next. People I am very close to are moving on. Something is ending. This makes perfect sense.

But then I read this:

“To see or feed baby food in your dream, indicates that nurturance and care is needed in a waking situation. Alternatively, the dream may be a metaphor to indicate that you need to eat smaller portions of food.”

Ahhh. I see. Yeah…that’s more like it.

Phew!

Time for a change

Lately, I’ve been going through a bit of a rough patch. Call it what you like – hitting speed bumps, in a rut, down in the dumps. Perhaps a quarter-life crisis?

I don’t normally blog about my job because (1) I’d bore you to tears (it’s more likely that I would end up in tears) and (2) everything you write can be found on the Internet and I didn’t want to get fired. But I no longer have to worry about no. 2 because I have just resigned.

This was quite possibly the hardest decision I have ever made and for fear of no. 1, I won’t go into the details. But it was time to go. The problem was nothing else was in order to actually do that, meaning I didn’t have another job to go onto. So I tried stalling for a couple weeks. And things only got worse.

After some long talks and a lot of tears, we decided handing in my notice was the right thing for me to do. So, as of this past Tuesday, I am working my month’s notice and then I am out of there.

I could go into all the bad things. I could tell you what I didn’t like about the place. Some of you already know it anyway. But what really pushed me into making this decision?

Two things.

1) Two weeks ago, I was almost to the end of my long morning commute. On a good day, it takes just over an hour, door to door. On a bad day, it could take up to 2 hours. It was a bad day. The Victoria line was experiencing severe delays. It was extremely hot and stuffy on the train. It would stop for long periods of time in a tunnel and then when it would pull into a station, people would push onto the train, making it even more hot and stuffy. When we arrived at Kings Cross, two women pushed their way onto the train. They were both dressed in smart business suits. They both looked to be in their 40s. One of them positioned herself so that she could hold onto the pole. The other tried to get past. The other elbowed her. Then a full elbow fight broke out. “Excuse me! But I am getting on this train!” “Well, don’t push me off it!” And back and forth they went…these two professional businesswomen!

I just stood there, smushed in between a group of Italian tourists, trying to move my face every few seconds to get a breath of air. And I watched these two women and I thought to myself, What am I doing? Is this what I have to look forward to? Will this be me in 20 years? Will I be elbowing my way to get on a train, to get somewhere first, to get to the top?

2) When you don’t like your job, it’s very hard to get up in the morning. It’s even harder to do the commute. Last week, I missed my usual train by three minutes. So I had to kill time for 20 minutes and get the later train home. I walked to the last car, hoping it would be almost empty so I could have some peace and quiet for a few minutes before the rush of people got on. I made my way to the last row of seats and sat down. I looked next to me and there was a crumbled Times.

When I turned over the paper, I instantly recognized the columnist. Not because I ever read her or know her. But I was once mistaken for her and it has always stuck with me.

When I was studying in London in 2004, I did an internship with Reader’s Digest magazine. Probably the most exciting thing during my time there was the Christmas party they hosted at a restaurant in Harvey Nichols. The guests were a mix of writers, editors, celebrities, politicians and media contacts. They had prepared name tags for everyone and even me, the nobody-intern, got one.

I like to think I mingled with the best of them. At least I think I did pretty well for an intern. The canapes were delicious. The drinks were flowing. And I was probably the only intern not downing glasses of champagne in the corner.

Late into the evening, I noticed a woman smiling at me from across the room. She said something to the people she was standing next to and they all looked over at me and smiled. Then she rushed over to me.

She introduced herself and said, “I love all your work.”

It was very clear she had had too much to drink and she was sort of swaying back and forth. So I thought she was talking about Reader’s Digest work in general, not my work. I smiled politely and said, ‘Thanks.”

She went on and on. “I just love everything you do.”

Then my editor at Reader’s Digest stepped in and whispered to me, “She thinks you’re Caitlin Moran.“

Now, at the time, I had no clue who that was. But I can see where someone who had too much to drink and only glanced at my name tag could be mistaken. After all, my name tag had my maiden name : Caitlin Marvin.

I don’t know if that woman ever realized that she was talking to an American intern and not her favorite columnist, Caitlin Moran. But I will always remember that night and how I wished one day I could be at one of those parties and someone would see my name, recognize it and tell me they liked something I wrote.

I never read The Times and although I have never forgotten that Christmas party incident, I hadn’t thought about it much. Until I saw that paper. It got me thinking all over again and wondering what is next for me and what’s out there for me.

I have to believe that there is something better out there. I have to believe that even if I have to travel in cramped trains and spend time and money doing it, where I’m going is worth it.

And I realized I couldn’t say that about my current job.

These two incidents reminded me of what I really wanted to do and what I would be happy doing. Now, do I think I am going to get a job as a columnist? No. But maybe I could get a job where I had more time to write. Or a job where I felt I was able to build on my skills. Maybe I could get a job where I actually felt good about myself and what I was doing.

So, that’s my news. Now it’s time for me to go elbow my way onto a train…

A lesson in city living

I don’t normally mind my commute. I get to read or listen to music. I read the free newspapers. Sometimes I do my makeup.

No one talks on the train in the morning. It’s just what’s done here. It’s perfectly quiet except for the odd sneeze and the whizzing of passing trains. Nobody looks at you. Some people sleep. Most people read or listen to their iPods. Taking the train can be really relaxing.

And no one really talks on the tube either. But it’s not as relaxing because you’re usually crammed on there with tons of people and you can’t even find a space on the pole to hold on to. And it’s not necessarily as quiet because there’s a lot more sneezes, coughs, too loud head phones and now, the most annoying thing, mobile phones that play music on speaker.

Although you may be pushed up against someone, there is no real human interaction. When someone sneezes, there’s no “Bless you.” When everyone can hear (and is visibly annoyed by) the loud music coming from a mobile phone, no one says anything. When a group of teenage boys take up a row of seats and throw their rubbish on the ground, people just look away.

This was something I had to get used to. I ride in the same train car every day with the same people and I have never said one word to any of them. Most days I sit across from the same man (it was my spot first!). When someone sneezes, I don’t say anything. I don’t even look at them.

Most days I just feel like a robot. I can’t even remember getting off the train and getting onto the tube. I know my stop by just looking at the clock. I very rarely notice that they’ve changed the ads in the station.

The sad thing about this is that people forget that is what we are…people. Last week, a girl passed out at the bottom of the escalators at Warren Street station…we all just moved around her as the TFL workers attended to her. Several people sighed and grunted as they passed, annoyed that they had to filter into a different escalator line.

And today…as I was rushing back to the office after lunch, my arm and another person’s arm hit as we passed each other on a very busy street. It hurt. It may have even been her big handbag. I apologize…a quick apology. The kind everyone seems to do here. The one that hardly means anything. The one you say when it isn’t even your fault…like this moment.

Suddenly I hear someone say very loudly, “Sorry!” It takes a second for it to register. I turn around and the woman is standing there, looking at me like I am a murderer. She is waiting for a proper apology. I say sorry again and turn away. As I turn into my office, I am stunned. And a little embarrassed because I don’t want anyone to think I am rude. And I do feel bad but I’m not sure why. I did say sorry. She hit me as much as I hit her.

On my way to Kings Cross to catch my train tonight, I was thinking of this. Why is it that no one can be nice when it matters? Why can’t someone offer a sympathetic smile when someone sneezes two times in a row? Why did this woman care so much that she stopped me and forced me to apologize again?

And then it hit me. Maybe she is just feeling how I am feeling! Tired of being invisible. Tired of the hustle & bustle… which always sounds great when you talk about it at Christmas time or read about it in tour books…but really, “hustle & bustle of the city” is overrated. Maybe she is tired of people bumping into each other and not making a sincere apology.

But then I thought…we may be feeling the same way but the next time I sneeze, I am not going to turn to the man next to me and demand he says, “Bless you.” She went about it all wrong.

And this just got me all upset again. And I only got more upset as I entered Kings Cross and saw the crowds of people. More pushing, shoving, more “excuse me’s” and “sorry’s” even when no one is listening. I finally make it to the small grocery store in the station. I needed to pick something up for dinner. Of course, the store is packed and people are grabbing food off the shelves like they are stocking up for war time and the line is wrapped around the fresh vegetable section.

While I’m debating over mild or medium cheddar, I hear the woman next to me say, “Don’t steal that.”

And when you hear something like that, you just have to look. There was the young, spotty teenage boy looking sheepish by the boxed sandwiches. He takes the sandwich out of his bag and goes to put it back on the shelf but the security guard has already seen him. Too late.

A look of panic spreads across the boy’s face. The security guard calls out to another security guard. The boy looks from the security guard to the woman to the door. And then the boy starts to cry.

The woman takes the sandwich off the shelf and grabs a bag of crisps. “Do you want a drink too?”

The boy and the security guard look at her as if she’s crazy. We all do. I am surprised she hasn’t already left the scene to continue shopping. And then she turns to the security guard.

“It’s not stealing if I buy it for this young man.”

The security guard shrugs and steps back. The woman passes the food to the boy and places £10 in his hand.

He wipes the tears away and says he’s just so hungry. He thanks her as the guard takes him to the cash registers.

A few minutes later, the boy runs back over to the woman. He hands her the change and thanks her over and over again. He thanks the security guard and the guard shows him out.

The woman looks at me and we smile. And then she shrugs and says, “We’re all hungry sometimes.”

And it made me smile all the way home. Every once in awhile, in this big city, among the hustle & bustle, you get a glimpse of life…and it is meaningful and purposeful and most of all, very real.

These boots were made for walking…(but not the kind of boots I wear)

It is officially Spring and England decided to start acting like it. Which would normally be a great thing. The birds are singing, the flowers are blooming, the sun is actually shining…

Except it means I no longer get a ride to the train station.

I’ve been dreading this. Three weeks ago it starting to feel a bit like Spring and Scott announced, “I’m going to be riding my bike again soon.” And I got that feeling in my stomach…the feeling that says, You better start planning outfits that go with your sneakers.

Luckily the bike tires had gone flat (and no, I didn’t do it!) so he had to push his cycling plans back a bit. Then the next week it snowed and yes! I was guaranteed a warm and dry ride to the station.

But then I knew I was in trouble on Sunday when he took his bike out of our bedroom where it has been stored for the winter (yes, our bedroom! How I despise this bike!). He took it outside, pumped the tires and rode around the block. And I knew then that on Monday, I’d be wearing those New Balances.

Sunday night, I set my alarm, allowing plenty of time to get ready and walk to the station in time to make my train. I had come to terms with the idea. I was ready for it.

But on Monday morning, when Scott’s alarm was going off before mine, I knew something was wrong. All wrong. I forgot to change the clock on my phone for Daylight Savings and therefore had slept in! I jumped up and scrambled to get dressed. I was not ready for this!

Scott was peacefully resting in bed and I had the sudden urge to put on my “feel sorry/guilty/bad for me” face and beg for a ride. But I held my head high and resisted.

Surprisingly, I got to work just a few minutes late.

Last night as we were getting ready for bed, I was deliberating over what jeans to wear. Scott asked what the issue was.

I began to explain that only certain jeans go with certain shoes. And because I am being forced to wear good walking shoes, I can only wear certain jeans that are just the right length.

To this, Scott looked flabbergasted (don’t you love that word?).

Scott: What do you mean you can only wear certain jeans? What are you talking about?
Me: Well, I wanted to wear those jeans but they are too short when I wear those shoes. I can only wear those with flats.
Scott: Don’t be ridiculous! Why do you care what you look like when you’re commuting? Just wear your trainers [sneakers for us yanks] and bring another pair of shoes.
Me: I don’t want to have to change out of socks and sneakers when I get on the train! Too much hassle.
Scott: So wear the flats then.
Me: But I’ll get shin splints if I have to walk such a distance in flats!!!

This went on for a few minutes until Scott announced he was going to sleep, therefore the conversation was finished.

But it’s true. It is a predicament for me. And causes me extra hassle in the morning. Not to mention that I have to get up earlier while Scott gets to sleep in later.

Grrr.

So it looks like I’ll be walking from now on. Unless of course it rains…in which case I do get a ride. Or if it snows…and let’s face it, this is England. Weather is unpredictable.

Maybe there’s still hope.

Leaving on that midnight train…to Hatfield

It’s almost midnight and I have only just arrived home after a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day.

I should have known that when they said England would experience 80 mph gale force winds, it would be a bad day. I should have pulled the covers back over my head and called in sick. But no…I got up and dressed and dried my hair (what was I thinking???) and stood on the train platform with all the other suckers as horizontal rain pelted us in the back. The train took forever and Kings Cross was closed due to a power failure. So I followed every other poor soul down the steps to Finsbury Park station where I waited for 15 minutes for a semi-empty tube. Then when I exited the Warren Street station, my umbrella blew inside out and snapped. Don’t you hate when that happens?

God was practically insisting I turn around and head back home. But I pressed on and made it to work in…well, a disheveled state but let’s face it, no one was looking their best this morning.

Because I work in a basement and never get to see daylight…I had no idea just how bad the winds had gotten. But when we ventured out for lunch and were standing at the crosswalk, the wind blew by and ripped a billboard off the side of the building and threw it into the street, causing cars to swerve and people to run for shelter.

The weather got worse and it soon became clear I wasn’t going to be getting home at my normal hour. Instead, I left work at 5:45 and made my way to Kings Cross to face the music.

Every train, on every line out of the city had been cancelled. And every tube line was experiencing severe delays as well. Scott was on his way into the city for a work party in South London so I couldn’t rely on him to save me. I contemplated calling my parents and seeing if they could get me a hotel room at the Victory Services Club with their military discount. Or maybe I could just call for some sympathy.

I stood in front of the electronic boards…waiting, hoping, wishing the train to Hatfield would suddenly appear to be “on time” or at least, “delayed.” Anything but “cancelled.”

No such luck. An hour later, and with no more fingernails to chew off and just one more bar of battery left on my ipod, a train to Cambridge was announced. And then they said they’d be stopping everywhere before Cambridge. There was a mad rush to platform 1 and I managed to secure a spot standing by the door. Just as the doors were closing, a man squeezed on and positioned himself right in front of me. He was so close I could count his ear hair. Of course I didn’t because that’s disgusting. But I could have if I wanted to.

The train slowly worked its way up London and stopped outside New Barnet. Then the driver came on, “Uuuhhh…ladies and gentlemen…uuuhhh…um.” Not a good sign.

“There seems to be a tree that has fallen across the tracks.” He explained that he would need to turn the train around and take us back to London.

I felt like screaming, “Not London! No, please! Let me off here! I’ll walk across the fields. I’ll risk getting electrocuted on the train lines. Help!”

We crept back towards New Barnet and the train came to a stop. The doors opened and we fell out onto the platform. There we were, 15 miles from Kings Cross and about 15 miles from Hatfield. I was stuck right in the middle with no trains running in either direction.

We all migrated to the bus stop outside the station and about 30 minutes later, a bus showed up and the driver announced that he was going to all stations to Welwyn Garden City. Great! That’s me!

Then we all discover that the driver does not have a clue where he is going! An hour and a half later, I set foot in Hatfield. Home sweet home.

Until I actually get home and see that the tiles from the roof of our building have been ripped off and are littered all over the parking lot.

Oh well, at least we live on the ground floor.

For more on the crazy weather we are having here, read this.