OK, I do have another story from my last jaunt to Birmingham that I should share. I geniunely forgot to last time, but as if I leave it any longer those who already know it will think I'm trying to get out of it, I'm going to put it up now so you can all laugh at me.
So, on Tuesday, the day I was coming back, I packed up all my stuff, we had a nice barbecue, played boules, and finally set off to Digbeth Coach Station (which has, incidentally, been spruced up, although only in the places where it didn't need sprucing).
We arrived early, so we killed time reading through the menu in the window of Chris's Café of Digbeth (it actually has "of Digbeth" on the sign, in fancy script, in the hope that it will make it look classy) and then sat in the waiting room of the station for twenty minutes. By then it was about time to hang around the coach and see how long it was possible to put off getting on, so we wandered over.
The coach wasn't there. This puzzled us.
There was a coach travelling on the same route, in the opposite direction. There were coaches going to all manner of other places. There was even a double-decker coach, of all things, headed for London. But not mine. So we turned and looked at the monitors.
The coach wasn't there, either. This puzzled us yet more.
After a moment's hard thought and a look at the information point (closed, as always), we decided we'd wait for the delayed coach and see if I could get on that. And, as is my habit when waiting around a station, especially when puzzled, I looked at my ticket again.
There was a good reason why my coach wasn't there, or on the monitors, or anywhere else. And it would have had to be very delayed indeed for me to catch it now.
This was because I had booked it for the day before.
We turned around and went home.
(In other news, I got As in all my AS levels today.)
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2 comments:
I feel you minimised the hilarity of that story by failing to mention the bit where we had to turn round and go back home. You know, the bit with you standing on my doorstep facing my bemused father and saying beseechingly, "Can I stay another night, please?"
Also, you neglected to mention that I thrashed you at boules. 13-3, oh yes indeed. (Sorry to bring it up, but I just thought that booking a coach for the wrong day and failing to notice until you were just about to get on it wasn't enough humiliation for one post.)
All sorted now. Ah, I'm slacking, clearly. It's a good thing one of us is paying attention.
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