Saved by the 281

Thomas' room, yesterday

Well, saved is a strong word. I am stuck in Twickenham, not Basra, and the worst case scenario is a walk home along the Thames.

However, having been up since 5am (Thomas’ room resembles the Sunshine room in the Danny Boyle flick at the moment so the poor bugger is struggling to sleep) the meltdown of train services in south-west London tonight is particularly tiresome. I do not have the car you see, so am foolishly relying on a combination  of South West Trains to get me home. They wheezed their way to the home of rugby, where I am to change, but my connecting train has not arrived, nor is it likely to in the foreseeable future. The automated voice over the tannoy insists he is sorry, but it is difficult to believe him. He isn’t even trying to sound sincere.

So, let down by the trains, I inevitably turn to my new best friends to get me home. The map outside the station suggests I need the 281, which runs from Hounslow to Tolworth, and sure enough, two minutes later there it is. I hop on with pride. I knew the buses wouldn’t let me down. It just feels a little odd not taking photos or making notes. Still, the bus breezes through Twickenham into Teddington as planes from Heathrow haul their huge frames into the darkening skies, sometimes seeming to only just clear the houses, and we are in Kingston soon enough.

A quick phone call reveals Kellie is at Ikea with Mum and Thomas and they are eating hot dogs. How the other half live, I’m sure you’re thinking. I am starving though and McDonalds is staring at me. I hate myself. I haven’t been in there for years. It always used to make me feel more hungry when I left, like it was negative matter. But it will surely do a job. I succumb. Another foolish decision sees me eat the excrement as I walk home instead of eating in the ‘restaurant’.

Walking through Norbiton eating a McDonalds is akin to Bruce Willis wandering around Harlem with ‘that placard’ hung around his neck in Die Hard 3. It’s just not done. I won’t be able to show my face around here for some time. I should be in a terrible mood. It’s taken me two hours to get home (a seven mile journey) and I’m eating crap. But it’s hard to be too angry when you’re walking in flip-flops. They are not conducive to storming furiously up the road. They limit your speed, so I resign myself to an evening stroll and prepare for another humid night of toddler turmoil.

As for the 281, I shall be back in an official capacity some point soon.