LEJOG Blog

It is a clear and flagrant breach of the Trade Descriptions Act that this train should be called a "sleeper". For one thing, there is the noise. It isn't the noise of rails which disturbs, but what I assume to be the air conditioning system, without which we would doubtless either roast or freeze. Then there is the constant motion. I am not accustomed to dozing off in a bed which is being gently, and sometimes less gently, rocked from end to end by an unseen hand.

The fact that the bed is narrow and short has not of itself been a problem: I cannot sue First Great Western because of injuries sustained through falling fully five feet to the floor whilst asleep because the primary precondition has not been met. Therefore it will have to be the Trade Descriptions Act.

We have been killing time in Taunton Station for at least half an hour, probably more, but this has given me the opportunity to explore the little bag of goodies supplied to us. It was a bit like Christmas Eve, suddenly and unexpectedly finding cellophane-wrapped presents on our bed and I immediately unwrapped mine to see what was in it.

There is a small pack of First Great Western paper handkerchiefs, which are quite useful. There is a razor which frankly is not, although I have toyed with the idea of shaving off my right eyebrow just to see the reaction of all the strangers I meet over the next three weeks. Then there was something orange whose identity remained a mystery to me until I put my reading glasses on. "Foam ear plugs," the wrapper told me. I tried them. I don't think they kept much sound out, but I defy anyone to sleep when they have not one but two orifices blocked by foreign bodies.

There is a comb, which could prove useful in an emergency (e.g. my unshaven eyebrow needs untangling) and a rather neat toothbrush which comes apart to make it smaller - now I know where Robin Thorn got the idea from when he decided to fit S & S couplings on the tandem. There is a small tube of Colgate toothpaste (good) and a very small cake of soap, accompanied by something which looks like a brand new mantle for a an old-fashioned Tilley Lamp, but which is probably a diminutive flannel.

The final four items are sealed foil envelopes, two of them containing Refreshing Wipes, one containing Shoe Shine and the last containing Shaving Cream. All of these little gifts come in an attractive blue roll-up velcro-fastened container with zip-up plastic pockets.

We are still at Taunton Station and this is bad news. It is getting quite close to the point at which I need to evacuate my bladder and railway companies take a dim view of their lavatories being flushed while the train is at the station. Normally, this wouldn't worry me, after all an emergency is an emergency, but our carriage is being attended to by an efficient and smartly-dressed woman, who gives me the impression that in another life she might have been a member of the Gestapo. This is probably completely unfair, but I still don't feel like having to explain to her that there were no solids among what I just flushed onto the track. This same woman is due to serve me a cup of coffee at 7am and I don't want to do anything to upset her.