Where will you go?

Well, it sort of depends where you take me, doesn’t it? What it really means is that DSB – Danish State Railways – need a translator who does not have Danish as their mother tongue.

In the end I never went anywhere with them, but hopped on the Öresundståg to Sweden, rather than up the other coast to visit Hamlet. And – apart from the fact that Swedes are seemingly incapable of boarding trains with a view to seeing the bigger picture, and getting out of the way, preferably a little quicker, please – things were fine. The couple in front of me were making out before we even got to the middle of The Bridge. That’s the place where corpses are cut in half…

Before the train muddle we’d been on a couple of planes, the Resident IT Consultant and I. It’s a blessing, really, that our electricity bills are so big. (If you are reading this dear, of course they are not…) We hardly ever shop at T*s*o, so it’s primarily the electricity which made our ‘free’ flights possible. And I learned such a lot about the stewardess’s new boyfriend with the seven bedrooms.

The BA mozzarella wrap kept me going all the way ‘home’ in the end. Though I’ve never quite grasped why they are so cautious with their meatfree food. It was assumed I’d be wanting the dead bird.

Their onboard toilet had a faulty light. I was informed that they thought the light would still come on when I went in and shut the door. (It did.) It reminded me of the flight when I left three-year-old Son alone in his seat on the plane as I went to use the facilities. The WC was at the front of the plane, which made me look especially inept when I had to buzz the steward to come and get me out. There was no way I could find the ‘door handle’ from the inside…

The loving couple and I sat in the coach displaying a picture of a man picking his nose. I believe that is why it is often easier finding free seats in that part of the train. People are put off by the finger. After having stared at it for a long time, I worked out it’s someone trying to shush you. Not digging out snot.

Just to be safe, the Resident IT Consultant and I conversed in whispers, and when I needed to switch on my very noisy holiday mobile (to call the vet for a car) I stepped outside for a minute. Outside the nose-picking zone, not the whole train.

In Ängelholm we passed a train, bearing the name of an ancient easy listening singer, going in the opposite direction. None of this Flying Scotsman business when you can have Östen Warnerbring. Tyrolean hats come to mind.

We finally got to our penultimate destination, where we swapped Stilton and oatcakes for a Saab. Mr and Miss Vet left a party to deliver us a car, while Mrs Vet sensibly stayed and had fun. We had narrowly missed Miss Vet two days earlier as she was ‘held hostage’ at Manchester Airport in between flights.

With a bus strike just beginning, we were very happy to have some other means of transport. (I forgot the broom, again!) We stopped at ICA Maxi for fermented milk and other necessities, after which the poor Resident IT Consultant most uncharacteristically collapsed into bed.

It was only later I discovered what his chosen reading matter had been. A book with the title Why Most Things Fail.

(Whereas I read a fantastic new book. Find the review here. Soon. Very soon.)

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