In Homage to Old Ladies

Since the events below happened I have vowed to immortalise the Old Lady in a blog post, so have finally got around to doing it. There is arguably little point in doing so, as I'm assuming (and I realise I'm stereotyping rather here) that most Old Ladies don't tend to peruse naval-gazing blogs that are mainly about football, and, even less so, pause over blogs named after Indie albums of the mid-90s. But, nevertheless, I regret that I didn't think to ask the name of the Old Lady in this post, and so I'd like in some small way to say a belated thank you to her for caring about me, and for making me stop to realise this: people are nice.

A couple of weekends ago I had been at a wedding in Rye. I'd been careful not to drink too much (though I admit the concept of "too much" is both relative and moveable), aware that I had to get up at a pretty ungodly hour after going to bed post-disco (and oh, what a disco - but that's a story for another time) to travel the tortuous route across the country for a weekend of intensive postgraduate study: Rye to Ashford, Ashford to London, London to Nottingham. Slightly distorted vision which I put down to switching from contact lenses to glasses with slightly different prescriptions got progressively worse as strange shapes hovered frustratingly on the edge of my field of vision; lights flashed; pain hit the left side of my head and chasing a deadline on a moving train was a less than pleasant experience. The full effects of post-wedding fatigue and too much champagne coupled with migraine ickiness finally hit soon after I got onto the train to Nottingham.

I have a love-hate relationship with on-board toilets: love because they make for amusing dinner conversation: soon after the introduction of electric doors I mistakenly thought I'd locked it when I hadn't, and the ominous, slightly Star Wars-esque noise of the door opening again, quickly revealing a deeply embarrased young businessman in a suit desperately pressing the "close door" button to no avail as I sat somewhat helplessly doing the same was, looking back, quite funny; hate because, well, they're actually quite horrible. The second the train pulled away I locked myself in the cubicle with the intention of staying there for the foreseeable future. Foolishly, I had assumed others would be courteous enough to leave me alone.

15 minutes or so into the journey there was a loud, businesslike knock on the door, and a purposeful voice said (rather superflously, give the door would've said "engaged") "I know you're in there". This didn't seem to warrant a response, so I didn't give one. He continued "I saw you go in there more than 15 minutes ago. Would you like to come out and show me your ticket?" I'd like to say I engaged him in intelligent conversation, but actually I think I made some weak, rambly noise along the lines of "hang on a minute", because he carried on, in a voice that seemed to suggest all his suspisions were confirmed but he was playing along with me, "What are you doing in there?"

I opened the door proffering my ticket, but found my question was already being answered by a small, elderly lady straight out of an Alan Bennett novel who was standing behind the ticket inspector, tapping him firmly on the shoulder as she began to reprimand him: "I don't think this young lady's very well, you know. I think you owe this her an apology, don't you?" None was forthcoming as he gracelessly stamped my ticket, declaring resolutely that when people "hide" in the loo they are "generally just common fare-dodgers", and I swayed in the doorway murmuring that I was sorry, so she continued "I told you she just wasn't very well, " and then, a little creepily, "I've been listening". I retreated back into my cell leaving the Old Lady witht he apparent toilet fetish to continue to argue the toss with the ticket inspector, who was saying you couldn't be too careful, to which the Old Lady retorted "A simple "Are you alright?" wouldn't have gone amiss."

Eventually, this bizarre scenario thankfully over, I went and found the seat I'd paid for and sat and dozed, until, about 20 minutes past Luton, I felt a tap on my shoulder. The Old Lady was standing next to me, insistently pushing a paper cup that smelled nauseatingly of its hot plastic lid close to my nose. "Peppermint tea," she announced, almost triumphantly. "I got it from the drinks trolley for you. It's very good when you've got a poorly tummy."

I worry now that I wasn't grateful enough, though I gushed the standard "Oh, that's so kind" and offered money which she refused to accept, but I was a little overwhelmed. This Old Lady came across all at once as the sort of elderly Last Of the Summer Wine battleaxe you wouldn't want to mess with (I never saw the ticket inspector again and wonder if he made it out of there alive), and, at the same time, as a tender and lovely grandmother. I am truly touched that someone would go out of their way to help this young (I look younger than I am), bedraggled stranger in a Bradford City hoodie, and I am highly amused that she fought my corner with the over-zealous train guard. I didn't think to ask for her name, and she shuffled off to the next carriage then got out at Leicester, otherwise I may have tried to say thank you later. The contrast between the two characters in this not-especially-exciting little interlude doesn't do much for the reputation of Midland Trains, but it says a lot for the kindness of strangers. To the ticket inspector: I hope you failed to mind the gap when you stepped off the train; to the little Old Lady: my heartfelt thanks - I salute you.