The tracks of my fears

What to do on a Bank Holiday, we wondered? Anywhere in the Lakes would be heaving with tourists gawping at the views and parking badly.

So we decided to go to Edinburgh. True, we failed to spot that it was the Fringe Festival, but who doesn’t like a nice, big, crowd? They also seem to be knocking down a chunk of the city, but never mind – it’s big. There are plenty of other un-demolished bits to enjoy, presuming you can get near them amongst all the other people.

Whilst the south of the country basked in temperatures pushing 30C, the over- crowded bit of Scotland was a moderate 18C, with a breeze sufficiently strong that what’s left of my hair took on a ruffled look.

We’d travelled up early for our day of intellectual shop-browsing and cappuccino consumption, letting the train take the strain, and had even spotted an interesting bridge from our luxurious carriage. Some web-browsing subsequently revealed it to be the just-about-to-open Queensferry Crossing. Bonus – we’d already done something cultural and it wasn’t even time for elevenses.

A tiring day looking at stuff that we can’t afford, having lunch al fresco on a bench in the park whilst trying to prevent our M&S sarnies from blowing away, and me getting baffled by the technology in the TV & Computer department of John Lewis, ensued.

We even had time for a leisurely meal in the evening, overlooking the city, where I had one of those new-fangled beverages that sounded excitingly progressive and modern – a concoction of ginger, chilli and fennel. It was nice... if you want your drink to taste like a particularly angry compost heap.

Back at the station, we played the delightful game familiar to every regular train user – who can spot when the platform comes up on the departures board for your train first – before heading wearily towards our transport of delight home.

“Have you got your ticket?” enquired Mrs G. A fair question – I have in the past been in a shop, listening to a staff member asking customers if a found ticket was theirs, whilst thinking smugly “Ha! What sort of buffoon loses that?” before realising it was me.

“Yup!” I replied cheerily, checking the pocket it was in, only to discover it wasn’t. I checked the other likely pocket, and it wasn’t there either. By now, Mrs G. was giving me the kind of look reserved for naughty 4-year-olds who have just said “it wasn’t me!” whilst holding the same colour of crayon as the drawing of a cat on the new wallpaper.

Panic stations. Circling back, we couldn’t find it. My journey home was a tortuous experience. How long before the guard came? How soon after would I be ejected from the train? Or fined? Or put in prison?! I’m too young and pretty!

Amazingly, despite a two hour journey, no-one came to check our tickets. I had a relaxing bank holiday, thanks. You?

This post first appeared as my "Thank grumpy it's Friday" column, in The Mail, on the 1st of September 2017. The version used on their website can be seen right about here

I'm actually very well organised and almost never lose anything. Train tickets would appear to be my stuff-retaining blind spot. Thank you, inefficient train staffing levels for letting me get home un-checked.

(CD A-Z: A home-made on of Queen Fanmixers stuff I found on that internet thing.)

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