Trains, Pains and Anniversary Meals…

Firstly, I feel that I should apologise, as this post is a whole day later than usual.  I blame the trains (this will be a recurring theme throughout this post, so I may as well start the train blame off nice and early).  I was also at a My Chemical Romance concert, or ‘gig’, for my and The Boy’s 1 year anniversary.  It took up most of the day.

The day started off quite well – I had a lie-in, read The Boy’s most recent copy of Empire, whilst half listening to him plan our journey to Wembley.  Turns out that I should have been fully listening to him – the journey was much trickier than either of us had first imagined.  The Boy thought we’d go to the train station, get on a train, get on another train and have a simply marvellous time, celebrating 1 whole year of loveliness and bickering.  I thought that we’d drive down to a tube station at the very end of the line (I’d tell you where it is, but if you all start doing that, I’ll never get a parking space), then just get the tube in – it’s much cheaper than getting the train (but then again, most things are cheaper than train journeys nowadays – private jet, chauffer-driven car, flying pony), and celebrate 1 whole year of loveliness and bickering.  Then the ‘planned engineering works’ buggered up our plans good and proper.  The Wembley Park station was closed (possibly forever, certainly for the weekend), so there was no way of doing my idea.  Curses.  Then we saw that there was a limited timetable between our station and King’s Cross.  Not to be deterred, I suggested that I drive (this was a Bad Idea.  I get very stressed whilst driving anywhere that I don’t know, and have previously offered to throw several treasured friends out of the window.  I’ve never followed though, but I am now cut from several Christmas card lists).  All of the car parks at Wembley were full.  It was probably for the best.  Then I had one of my better ideas – I called a nice man at National Rail Enquiries (after trying 3 times to get the number from The Boy, who was muttering moodily in the corner by this point, about the unlikeliness of celebrating 1 whole year of loveliness and bickering), who confirmed lots of train times, so we tentatively made plans to get the train. 

And that should have been that.  Except it wasn’t.  Our train stopped outside a station for 5 minutes, and the driver told us that we were in a queue.  That was fine, I checked the BBC News mobile website, The Boy checked the football results.  Five more minutes passed.  I checked Mirror Mobile celebrity news mobile website, The Boy checked the football results.  Seven more minutes passed, and I checked Facebook, The Boy pressed refresh and checked the football results again (by this point, conversation was fairly stilted, with no more talk of anniversaries or loveliness, but plenty of suggestions of bickering, and we’d taken to composing our letters of complaint out loud.  If I find out that one of the other carriage occupants has stolen the line ‘if I’ve had to re-mortgage my house for a seat on your precious train, it seems that the least you could do is to keep the blasted thing moving’, there will be trouble.) then, out of the blue, I saw a rainbow.  And it was a ruddy good one too, none of that watery, half hearted visionary trickery for this rainbow – oh no, this one was VIBRANT.  Loveliness back on track.  I pointed it out to The Boy as a sign of good things to come, and we spent a good 30 seconds admiring it.  Then, when it became clear that we still weren’t going to move, we spent another 432789432 seconds admiring it.  I saw cars whizzing past on the road running parallel with the train track, and cursed them.  I’m not proud of myself.

I don’t know how it took me so long to notice the man sitting directly in front of the window that we were staring out of (probably because I was trying to read his newspaper over his shoulder).  He was wearing mustard coloured cords.  With brown shoes.  And a khaki tanktop.  But possibly my favourite part of the outfit was the baby blue shirt, stylishly adorned with bright red and baby pink stripes.  It was certainly an outfit to get noticed in, but it made my eyes hurt whenever I glanced at it.  Perhaps I should consider a career change, and be like the female version of Gok Wan, showing men around the UK how to dress?  We could call it ‘How To Look Good With Your Clothes On.’  Anyhoo, I pointed it out to The Boy, in a whisper, but I’m still pretty sure that he heard me (the man, not The Boy – he has quite good hearing).  Finally, the train started moving, very, very slowly.  Then a bit quicker, then very, very slowly again.  In this throughly thrilling jerky fashion, we finally made it into King’s Cross, a mere 45 minutes after our scheduled arrival, fully prepared to forget the delay, and to celebrate 1 whole year of loveliness and bickering.  The Man in the Mustard Trousers pulled his coat from the luggage rack –  a gorgeous, reversible all-weather jacket, turquoise on one side, bright red on the other (I swear, if my idea does take off, I’m hunting him down and dedicating the whole of my first show to burning his entire wardrobe.  Some people cannot be trusted to do their own clothes shopping – I look at them in the same way that some people look at modern art – I think that I understand what they’re trying to get at, but it just doesn’t make work).

We were optimistic when our tube journey started – the Victoria line to Oxford Circus was a smooth journey and we even got seats.  Then we got onto the Bakerloo line to Wembley Central, and it all started to go wrong – again, we got stuck between 2 stations, seemingly just for the heck of it.  Anyhoo, cursing TFL along with First Capital Connect, we eventually got to Wembley Central, and decided to walk to the arena (I say decided, that was pretty much the only option available to us).  I should point out that The Boy is 6 ft tall.  I’m 5ft and 3/4 of an inch – a slow amble for him is like a route march for me.  As it was our anniversary (I know, I should have mentioned it before), The Boy had booked us a table at a very nice Chinese restaurant near the arena (he said it was nice, never having been there, I took his word for it) – we’d already had to ring twice from the train to push back our reservation, so we needed to rush.  Well, The Boy needed to rush, I needed to sprint – it’s lucky that myself and my Wii Fit are back on speaking terms, and I’ve been doing the Island Lap jogging.

I appear to have rambled on for quite some time, so suffice to say that the restaurant was amazing (they had a fish tank.  I may demand that all food establishments that I am taken to from now on come with fish tanks.  Even McDonalds.), and we still had plenty of time before we went and stood awkardly amongst the hordes of heavily eyelinered teenagers.  I say stood, we had seating tickets (The Boy is very considerate of my feelings, and thought that I might be uncomfortable standing, even though I’d told him to get the standing tickets.  I protested that I’d be fine, but was secretly relieved.  And worried, as he clearly knows when I’m lying.)

So, we got in, bought some ridiculously overpriced drinks, and that was that.  We happened to walk past a merchandise (or ‘merch’, if you will) stand, and I was visited by a horrible realisation – I couldn’t by anything (I was going to refer to this as a moral dilemma, but The Boy told me that it in no way related to a moral dilemma, or even an ethical one.  I’ve looked into it this morning, and he was right.  He usually is).  Chances are that I wouldn’t have bought anything anyway (after a minor hair dying catastrophe, I now have extremely dark hair, and walking around with MY CHEMICAL ROMANCE emblazoned about my person would probably suggest that I’m an emo.  Which I’m not – nothing against them, I’m sure that they’re lovely etc., etc…I’m just a bit too perky to be one), but it used to be nice to have the option.  Gah.

So, we sat.  The support acts came and went (The Blackout had their very own glow in the dark guitar), and I knew the words to a couple of their songs (God bless Fearne Cotton), but I had another horrible realisation last night – I am NOT cool.  It’s come as a terrible blow.  Then MCR (as those in the know call them), came on.  I’ve only really heard their singles (see – not cool), but I was singing along with the ones that I knew, and mumbling incoherently at the ones I didn’t, just in case those around us turned on me when they realised that I wasn’t a real fan.  They.  Were.  Awesome.  I could tell you about how I decided there and then to become a rock star, just so that I’d have that many people to come and chant my name in Wembley Arena, or how amazing it was to see everyone singing their hearts out, dancing along, getting crushed against the bar separating the crowd from the stage (or so the big screen suggested), but my rant about trains has meant that my blog post this week is a bit long. 

The Boy is going to make me an MCR CD.  I think that this is the equivalent of a mix-tape, and suggests quite a lot of commitment.  Which is nice.

The less said about the journey back, the better (mainly because it will involve another rant, and a possible unhealthy rise in blood pressure), but I got pushed out of the way by a chunky emo girl whilst trying to get on the tube at Oxford Circus.  So I elbowed her in the back.  Childish?  Yes.  Amusing?  Yes.  Then our train was cancelled.  And the next one was 40 minutes late.  And the chunky emo girl was at King’s Cross station, giving me evil looks whilst munching on a  supersized McDonalds (sorry, usually I wouldn’t be mean, but she does deserve it).  Finally, the train arrived, and people ran onto the platform (it was an actual stampede, and rather unpleasant.  Especially as my feet were in ribbons after the race back to Wembley Central station), but I think we all got seats, and the whole day was a rather lovely way to celebrate 1 whole year of loveliness and bickering, being such a perfect blend of the two.  At Welwyn Garden City, a group of teenagers who had also been at the gig (I’d hope so anyway, if not, they were all worryingly obsessed with the band, wearing hoodies and tops with MY CHEMICAL ROMANCE scrawled on them, and carrying around giant posters), boarded the train and proceeded to annoy everyone in the carriage.  Did you know that selective hearing is literally the best thing that has ever happened to the girl that chose to sit in front of myself and The Boy?  And did you know her boyfriend works the night shift at Asda in Biggleswade, where they play volleyball over the freezers?  And that 3 of the staff are permanently stoned?  It used to be 7, but some of them have left.  And did you also know that her boyfriend’s Dad won’t let them sit in the back of the car together?  Even though her boyfriend is 24?  They refer to his Dad as Mein Fuhrer, apparently.  (That doesn’t explain why her boyfriend can’t drive at the age of 24 – if he could, they could sit wherever the Hell they like, but I’m not judging.)

All together now – teenagers scare the living s&*t out of me……

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