Road To Nowhere

I went for a run this morning through the freezing fog and it was all quite atmospheric.

But by the time I'd got home, got ready and got into town for a spot of shopping I was heartily sick of it. It is impossible to shop when you can't get warm. Every frock looks like it wouldn't go anywhere to towards insulating you against the icy chill. I briefly considered buying a coat until I realised this was because I thought it might fit over the one i was wearing.

I want a pair of cords. Can't find a pair anywhere. Jeans just aren't thick enough for me in winter and can you buy cords this year? Apparently not.

So I bought a CD collection of dance music for the running folder on my ipod. I'm a bit bored with my current collection.

Now I've got 3cds of thumping dance anthems to push me up the hill tomorrow. Don't think I'll need them all though!

For those of us who shimmied round our bedrooms to Travelogue...

Eee, I used to think the Human League were the cat's pyjamas.

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God it makes me feel old... but at least I still have my hair. What's left that Nina hasn't snipped off in my latest shearing, anyway.

As I mentioned earlier, it's Winter graduation here today.

Part of my job involves interviewing students on days like today and it's always a real pleasure.

I've spoken to some really enthusiastic people this year, including two lads who have been juggling full-time jobs in sports development and part-time study to complete their MAs in Community Sport Development.

Both of them couldn't praise the course highly enough or how much it has helped them in their careers. As well as getting promoted they both said learning about what's happening in sport nationally and internationally has really given them an edge in their planning and reporting at work.

It's good to hear success stories from the people who are achieving through study. It makes you feel it's all worth while.

In between charging about like the rabbit from Alice in Wonderland with his bottom on fire I have been getting ready for my holidayette to Maastricht next month.

By that I mean mentally planning what I am going to wear.

But my friend is far more organised and is working on an itinerary. I love organised people.

So while we are there we are popping over the border to Germany to Aachen. And we're going to their Christmas market.

Wheeeee! can't wait!!

It's 8am and my breakfast has comprised of two nurofen plus, a bowl of porridge and half a bar of 85% cocoa solids chocolate. Yes, I'm on class-A chocolate first thing in the morning.

Public trainsport is beginning to ge to me.

I've always been content to sit quietly with my book, listen to my ipod or gaze out of the window. Sometimes I actually do some work reading.

Last night I accidentally ran into the side of the bus stop running for a bus. Yes, mildly amusing for spectators as I bounced off the glass, and then kept running.

But for me it was another nail in the coffin for my life with public transport.

As you may have seen in the news (though possibly not if you live down south because this is happening north of Watford and doesn't involve violent crime) Greater Manchester's citizens are being asked to vote on whether they want congestion charging.

Basically, if you drive in and out of the city centre during certain hours during the working week you'll have to pay a charge.

The money raised will help pay for improved public transport services. More tram routes, more buses, more train carriages etc.

I can drive but I chose public transport for commuting. Yes, I'm pro-charge. If it's better for public services, it's better for society, it's better for the environment and yes, it will be better for me too - if I can stick it out.

Of course the cynic in me suspects that no one will want to pay for something they didn't have to before and so committed car users aren't going to be voting 'yes'.

But as if to underscore the point about how uncomfortable trains are going to be without those extra carriages my evening train home suddenly seems to have got shorter recently. The end result is 200 more people than there are seats for rammed into three carriages. It is not pleasant.

In fact it kind of makes me wonder whether I should start driving to work again.

Yes, my nerves will be frayed by the end of the first week of hurtling up the motorway with the rest of the kamikaze commuters, but at least I won't have to scramble over 20 people and half a dozen suitcases to get onto the train platform every evening.

And in the morning, in order to avoid the 7.30am cattle truck to Bolton I am leaving the house at 6.30 to get the earlier train. At least you can sit down but getting up at 5.30 is exhausting me.

So, do I stick it out or buckle under and hit the road? More chocolate, I think.

Ok, so body fluids aside, I now have my top five worst fellow commuter odours.

At Number 1
BO - still out there, still always shockingly vile.

Number 2
Too much, too old aftershave.

You know, when it's gone off and it smells really sour and yet Mr Eau de Toilet is still strutting down the bus with as much swagger as he can muster in a moving vehicle.

Number 3
Stale cigarettes.

Not that, 'I've just had a Marlborough Light' smell. That 'I sleep in an ashtray and roll my clothes in it too' scumminess that is the preserve of sad young men and old ladies, for some reason.

Number 4.
Halitosis.

Rarely a problem (hence No 4), except when the person behind you breathes out suddenly and then you are enveloped in it.

Number 5.
Juicy Fruit Chewing Gum
A personal loathing. Is the sweet sickly smell of Satan's sweetshop in my book.

Yesterday I had a particularly unpleasant 3-5 combination on a packed train back to Manchester. Old lady with no ability to close her mouth when she chewed either.

Anyone want to raise me?

I have been stalked today by two of the most irritating people to step onto public transport recently.

If I weren't more well-balanced *shut up at the back* I would suspect conspiracy.

This morning Mr Noisily-Chewing-Gum sits behind me, clearly with his mouth open, furiously chomping. Fortunately for me he gets off the bus after 15 minutes but it's annoying. No one should be frowning before 7am.

Then Mr Not-Particularly-Fab-Gay-UK turns out to be on the train at Oxford Road station, clearly drunk from his night on the town, bellowing into his mobile phone to his mate Tam.

He informs Tam - and half of Greater Manchester - that he's on a train with a load of heterosexuals eating tuna sandwiches. (He's eating the sandwiches, not us, but no-one's going to pick him up on his sentence structure, least of all me who has now lost a frown - and found a glower).

Let me explain something: the 7.15 is the preserve of the semi-comatose commuter or the jet-lagged holidaymaker. It is a place a calm, quiet and no one welcomes some shrieking Scots lad telling his Tam how he's been down the sauna for 'some action' but there was nothing doing. Having established Tam, who apparently has 'fabulous' purple hair, would be coming round at about 8.16 he eventually got off the phone.

As I was getting off the train at Bolton he was telling a very unfunny joke about similarities between lesbians and adidas trainers.

Oh the joys of train travel.

Following on from last week's ramble about the strange people you meet at train stations...

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