Chipping Norton Times - Issue 26 - November 2012 (PDF)

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We laughed and laughed and exchanged knowing looks. How this lady, like, s-o-o-o didn’t know us! Sitting by the sun-kissed, hazy, lazy blue waters of the hotel pool, she was of elderly, yet indeterminate age, decked out in yards of flowing, coloured chiffon, effortlessly achieving the poised look that Bette Davis had perfected in her twilight years. Our poolside companion had just (in the course of relating a selection of enviable travelling anecdotes), let slip the immortal phrase “First Class: it’s the only way to travel.” Naturally, we'd nodded in complete agreement and I hoped I'd peeled the price sticker off the bottom of my Poundland flip-flops. Bette Davis’ twin sister did everything and everyone First Class - we'd won a competition in the local rag and, well, we were going to mention it, but…y'know how it is. It's impolite to interrupt a lady. ---O--- I didn’t mind the walk in the drizzle, dodging the crowds, stepping on and off the kerb, face bent into the cold, but the London Underground in rush-hour is grim and smelly. It’s borderline freezing on the streets of the capital, but down below the air is fetid, a heavy rush of hot wind as trains surge through the tunnels. Each train that squeals to a clattering stop at Euston Square is hideously overcrowded and finding a six-inch square of floor space means getting to know the bloke next to me more personally than is decent. At seven in the evening, Paddington is a heaving mass. The Departure board is surrounded by hundreds of grey faces, clammy foreheads, necks tilted, eyes scanning the flickering yellow digits. Somewhere, in this metal-ribbed cathedral, the 7-22 to Hereford stands empty and waiting. And, when the board finally announces at 7-17 that it's at platform 2, the faithful respond to the call. I've never seen fat men run so fast! They pass me in a whirl of blue pinstripe, hugging laptops to rolling chests, shiny shoes skimming the concrete. Strictly Come Commuting. There are six carriages on the 7-22 to Hereford. The nearest two are First Class, the next four Cattle Class. First Class is presumably nearest so rich people don't have so far to walk, but, providing I get on in the next three and a half minutes, I've got all the time in the world, and I've certainly got time to adopt an indifferent attitude. So I pass the First Class carriages (where no doubt Oriental handmaidens will soon be washing the tired feet of Company Director A and Chief Executive B) and I saunter slowly and deliberately down the platform, my boots clumping on cold concrete. "Slowly and deliberately" means no seat. I was actually hoping to actually sit in a seat that I’d paid for, but, forget it. No seat in four carriages. So much for indifference. I prop myself in a corner next to the toilet, trying to look like a man who wants to stand all the way home. In the space between compartments there are seven of us, all men, four already roaring into their phones. Mobile Man closest is telling some poor soul about his mother’s illness and, with each expulsion of breath, I get a fairly good idea of what each course of his lunch has been. We’re not on kissing terms yet, so I turn away and read the notices: 18 THE ONLY WAY TO TRAVEL A short story by Nicholas John Do Not Obstruct Door. Do Not Attempt To Open Door While Train Is Moving. Do Not Lean Against Door And Plunge Into Oblivion. I'm not a great believer in the stars or the planets, but some cosmic alignment must have happened over my head. At the precise instance, I hear the tannoy mumble something about "upgrades", I also hear some long-forgotten words from an earlier life: “First Class, it’s the only way to travel." Bless Bette and her sister! I'll get an upgrade! I hesitate, but not for long. Mobile Man is now describing his mother’s ailments in capital letters. I can argue with my principles later, when I'm in Comfort Class. Besides, in the intervening twenty years, Bette has surely gone to that Great Hotel Suite In The Sky, so I'll do this in remembrance of her. Seems only right and proper. I push and squeeze my way back along the train, heading for nirvana. One bloke wittily says “Not much room down that way mate” but he knows jack. I've got a grim “isn’t this awful” expression and a "but we're all in this together" look about me, or so I hope. And then it dawns on me: if I’m going to get an upgrade, surely every right-thinking person on the train is too? Everyone forced to stand with their noses pressed to toilet doors or into someone’s armpit will rush into First Class and, throwing roubles around, demand a seat there. When I burst into First Class, it's at a run. Blimey, it’s almost empty! There are a few occupied places, but only about fifteen in the whole carriage. A choice of seats - in fact, I could lounge across a couple at the very least. No trilling mobiles with stupid answer tones, no clattering laptops, no body odour; just Mozart soothing my furrowed brow. Like reaching an oasis in the middle of the Sahara. As a newcomer, however, to the hallowed halls of First Class, I’m not quite sure exactly what to do, so I select a plush recliner (ooh, how soft and so very, very comfortable) and wait to be upgraded by whoever next arrives. Surely, I can faintly hear the chink of expensive cocktail glasses and, over there, isn't that the dignified murmur of nobility? The ticket collector glides by and my request for an upgrade is met with civility and the gentle whirr of his handheld credit card machine. It's also met by taking out a small mortgage. No wonder Mobile Man prefers to stand and suffocate. But, as all those years ago, I make no admittance that I'm an interloper and stump up nevertheless. A softly-spoken girl pushing a trolley asks if I would like a drink and I ask for a coffee, opening my wallet. And I'm undone. She understands, smiles and says politely, “It’s complimentary, sir” and I've been rumbled for the intruder I am. All for a cup of Network Rail coffee. If I'd known, I'd have blagged a glass of wine. Here's the rub: I'm Joe Public, but I don’t want to be him 24/7 now do I? I kick my boots off. First Class: it’s the only way to travel. I assume the handmaidens are complimentary too? Nicholas John
COTSWOLD BOOKSTORE 20 High Street, Moreton-in-Marsh 01608 65<strong>26</strong>66 email: cotsbookstore@tiscali.co.u NEWS With yet another Christmas only a matter of weeks away, Cotswold Bookstore has shelves full of bargains for young and old alike. However, do try to order as early as possible as things can be a little hectic as we approach December. It is amazing to think that this will be our tenth Christmas here, the time has flown by so quickly. Give our blog a look for the latest news - cotswoldbookstore.blogspot.co.uk REVIEWS Sword of Light by Katherine Roberts Paperback at £6.99 Mixing King Arthur’s knights with a light fairy storyfor 6 to 12 year olds was never going to be easy but this tale of Rhianna Pendragon, secret daughter of King Arthur, pulls it off quite well. It is the first in a series and starts with the death of Arthur and a challenge to young Rhianna to recover Excalibur, before Mordred and his knights can do so. Rhianna sets out with Elphin, son of the Lord of Avalon and Merlin, as their guide, and is soon confronted with dragons, dark magic and battles with Arthur’s enemies. There are other tasks ahead of her and the second in this series, The Lance of Truth, out in hardback, carries the story forward. However, this is en enjoyable start though mostly for the younger readers from the suggested age range. Tom-All-Alone’s by Lynn Shepherd Paperback at £7.99 Bleak House has long been one of my favourite books by Charles Dickens, up there with David Copperfield and Great Expectations, so I was interested to see what Lynn Shepherd could achieve by setting her murder mystery in the same period and using many of the same characters as did Dickens. I found much enjoyment in welcoming old friends such as the lawer Tulkinghorne or Phil from George’s shooting gallery as well as spotting those who were hardly visible here, mere shadows (sometimes dead, at that) but who were often crucial in Bleak House such as Mr Crook. Here we find different explanations for the events that took place in Bleak House and the central mystery is, of course, very different but the story of missing children, long lost and waiting for discovery, is one that Dickens himself used. The plot rattles along, the characters are believable, even when not those from Bleak House, and the setting of the foul tenements of Tom-All-Alone’s and the filthy streets of London are all here. Some readers have been critical of the conceit of embedding this mystery with that of Bleak House but I enjoyed it and would be happy to recommend it to anyone, Dickens fan or not. More news and reviews - cotswoldbookstore.blogspot.com 19
Page 1 and 2: CHIPPING NORTON TIMES Issue 26 Nove
Page 3 and 4: CHIPPING NORTON TIMES From the Edit
Page 6 and 7: 6 Strictly - In Moreton Ballroom &
Page 8 and 9: 8 Hamptonsfinefoods fine food from
Page 10 and 11: Harassment - how much can it cost y
Page 12 and 13: 12 V.J. Collett Ltd VJ Collett - Fa
Page 14 and 15: 14 Working with Nature- Est 30yrs W
Page 16 and 17: 16 Want To Avoid A Penalty? Contact
Page 20: 20 All those aches and pains gettin
Page 25 and 26: CHRISTMAS WORKSHOPS Textile Christm
Page 27: Residents Views sought on draft Loc
Page 33: Headaches Look at the alternatives
Page 37: Can you drive? Cotswold Volunteers
Page 40: 44 MATT KEYTE BSc (hons) Dip (ossm)
Page 45: 01451 821320 | info@cotswoldsfit.co
Page 48 and 49: 52 Steve Edwards: The man of 500 ma
Page 51 and 52: 10k Run Postponed MORETON RANGERS F
Page 53 and 54: The New Rotary Club of Kingham && D
Page 55 and 56: Animals & Pets Dog Walking/ Sitting

Chipping Norton Times - Issue 26 - November 2012 (PDF)

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