Take a breath, and take another. For, the moment we’d (I’d) been waiting for has FINALLY HAPPENED. In a turn of events so Dolly Alderton-esque that it seems almost too cliché, I met a guy.
On a train.
And had my very own love affair. Here’s my very-real version of ‘train guy’.
***
‘Destiny – the thing that I believed predetermined all great love stories’
Maggie, Everything I Know About Love
***
Okay, so we didn’t quite meet on the train – we actually met on Platform 2 at Cardiff station. Which, if you’ve ever had to wait for a train at Cardiff station, you’ll know isn’t particularly glamorous, nor adorned with a piano like so many of the far more romantic stations among us. A bit of background as to what was I doing in Cardiff – I’d spent a few days in an absolute whirlwind of love playing bridesmaid at my friend Clementine’s wedding. An occasion so glorious that I’m genuinely worried for what happens when the summer leaves and we fall off the high we’ve all been riding ever since.
As all good weddings go, if I wasn’t horrifically hungover, then I was most definitely still drunk. Groom, Dan, had only announced to me a few hours before that I was ‘right good and drunk last night’. I’d beg to differ, or agree, but I couldn’t remember. So, when the pre-programmed voice over the Tannoy announced in her robotic manner that the Cardiff to Manchester train I was due to catch had been cancelled, you can imagine the absolute hole of hungover despair I fell into.
As if that fall wasn’t enough, I then fell onto this chap. Genuinely and almost literally. I’d marched up to Customer Support in near tears (you’ve been there, when a hangover is that horrific that it induces every emotion you’re capable of), the thought of adding even more time to my already 7ish hour journey home threatening to tip me over. Suffice to say the irony of Customer Support that’s not actually anything close to being supportive never wears, eh. I doubt I was her first, or last, bleary-eyed passenger that day.
Having been told I was best to wait for the next train to Manchester (note, this was HOURS later), I stumbled to rest one hand on the nearest bench, supporting my other hand scrolling through the Trainline app at a rate it seemed faster than most of the UK’s trains that day. As the train fairies would have it, there didn’t seem to be alternative. But maybe, just maybe, that was because the love gods were finally about to take pity on me.
***
Low and behold, my scrolling was stopped in its tracks (pun intended) by a guy I hadn’t noticed sat on the bench I was half-leaning on. I don’t know how I hadn’t seen him, because he was literally almost leaning back on my hand. My hangover was one of those that evaporated any sense of spatial awareness almost as quickly as the pints of water I’d been necking in an attempt to counteract it.
“Sorry, did I overhear you saying you’re trying to get to Manchester?” he asked me.
“Yeah, well technically I’m trying to get to Leeds but Manchester’s where I was supposed to change trains,” I told him, with hungover pain strain in my voice and my best puppy-eye batting. That last detail was an absolute joke – at this point, I was still continuously refreshing the Trainline app and praying for a Sunday miracle.
As if sensing my despair, he told me that he, too, was both horrifically hungover and exceptionally pissed off with the state of the trains. His cherry on top was having to navigate cancelled trains without a phone – his had smashed on his hangover-inducing night out (hey pessimists, that’s not a lie – he was fast to show me the crushed evidence).
“Well I’m gonna get this train to Birmingham instead, then change there for Manchester. Why don’t you keep me company?”
Short of some dilly-dallying on my part – namely because travelling cross-country to the midlands, then north-west, and then finally north-east sounded lengthy – our platform conversation continued the full 15 minutes before his Birmingham train pulled up.
“So, are you coming with me? Selfishly, I’d like you to.”
That was probably the first time in my life I though, ‘fuck it, let’s go to Birmingham!’.
***
In-keeping with my whole ‘ain’t no man gonna steal my sunshine’ (but mainly for my love of food), I was more focussed on getting a seat on the train so I could finally give my M&S meal deal the attention it deserved over train guy. Oh, and it was a BLT, bag of sweet chilli crisps, and a non-alcoholic ginger beer (you’ve got to have a day off every once in a while) because you’re definitely wondering. Despite this mindset, train guy and I ended up sitting on opposing aisle seats (I’ll leave you to decide how circumstantial that was), and after rejoicing about finally leaving Cardiff behind us, the conversation continued.
***
Now, I shan’t recall its entirety because we did, indeed, talk away the 130 miles or so between Cardiff and Birmingham. And that would be far too much to detail, and I can’t remember everything we said. (Wink.) Yet what initially felt like polite chit-chat (how long have I’ve lived in Leeds (he lives in Manchester), why we were both in Cardiff, what we do for jobs etc) soon turned into full-blown conversation. And when we both had mutual contacts and interests through work, I considered that the stars might just be aligning.
It was one of the most real, genuine conversations I’ve had with a guy in a long time. One of those where you both actually show interest in one-another, distraction-free. We shared stories from our summers, agreed and disagreed over pet peeves, and spent a LOT of time talking about food. I reckon we had enough to create our own episode of Off Menu. And then some.
But it wouldn’t be a fairytale without a villain, namely seat reservations. With each stop that passed, the train began to fill up with sun-kissed Sunday travellers returning home from their weekend frivolities. With a seat becoming as hot a ticket as Adele’s Vegas residency, I think it was fair to say we both felt a sense of mild panic that our ‘first date’ (he coined that, not me), could soon be over faster than we’d bargained for. I say I think, but I knew – no sooner did the hustle and bustle of ‘excuse me, you’re in my seat’ begin did he ask to come and sit next to me.
***
I’d like to stop here and acknowledge how close train seats are to one another. SO CLOSE. Most of the time, as a solo traveller, it’s not something I tend to notice. I spend more time pretending not to have a nosy at who the person next to me has just matched on Bumble. Or what that URGENT work email pinned to the top of their inbox says. Or wondering when the bloody hell they’re getting off the train so I can get settled in the window seat for a nap. And if I’m on the train with friends, well we’re used to being in such close proximity, if not more. But when you’re sat next to a relative stranger that you’re actually talking to? All I’ll say is I’m glad I’ve got an exemplary flossing regime.
We spent the rest of the trek to Manchester in a combination of fits of laughter and trying to one-up each other’s travel stories. I’d go as far to say that we crossed the bridge to flirty banter quite successfully – and I wouldn’t say that’s me getting ahead of myself. Considering he flippantly brought us back to what a great story we’d have for our wedding, and how he’d not had a first date quite like this. We even became best mates (ok, slight exaggeration) with the on-board buffet dude – train guy bought us both a couple of (warm) beers in an attempt to try round the edges of our hangover. If you can’t beat them, join them.
***
On the approach to Birmingham, we encountered the second threat to our affair – the train we were on was obviously delayed. A minor 2 minutes(!) was all we had to change platforms. And by change, I mean hold ground by the doors (which side would they be opening on?) to be first to launch off the train, run up the escalators with luggage whilst not sending someone else flying down, haul suitcases across the bridge, back down the next set of escalators whilst jumping over dogs (because they’re ever frequent on Sunday trains), and jump onto the train bound for Manchester. I’m out of breath just typing that.
He offered to take my bag, and I would’ve let him had the risk that his athleticism could outweigh mine not have been a thought. It definitely wouldn’t have been such a fun story if he ended up on the train and then in Manchester with my bag, but not me… And also, I’ve ran for enough trains in my life to back my upper body strength and cardio levels. Suffice to say I was first up then down the escalators, and we both made the train.
***
Hurdle 1 crossed, but hurdle 2 wasn’t so far behind. This particularly Sunday service was rammed – RAMMED – and the best we could manage were seats behind each other. Yes, it was an unspoken given that we’d spend this train ride together, too. Ultimately, the break in affair was quite welcome – I took the opportunity to scoff my aforementioned BLT because the also aforementioned close proximity to train guy was far too intense to successfully navigate stringy bacon and sloppy tomatoes. If you know, you know. But, as my luck would have it, each and every time I bit into this sandwich and the bacon refused to remain in situ, he turned around to talk. Of course he did. We’ll call that the third hurdle, but we got over it. (And I got a lesson in which shop-made sandwiches to avoid on trains in the future.)
Back to the good stuff, and the passenger next to train guy left as soon as the first stop. Maybe he sensed that he was – literally – getting in the way of a real love story. Train guy took all but a second to ask me to sit in the now-vacant seat, and I didn’t need asking twice – I’d already mentally written the first paragraph of this blog.
So it goes, the next couple hours passed similarly to the first – and, having established that we both played tennis, it was a quick realisation that the Men’s Wimbledon Final was actually taking place. Right there, right now. Offering up my email address to Cross Country trains, and we were live-streaming Djokovic VS Kyrgios in no time. Stream might be my second exaggeration – the WiFi was rather intermittent – but I’d still call it game, set, match.
Jokes about going for a beer once we reached Manchester had been highly charged in the beginning, but like Kyrgios succumbed to Djokovic, we too did to hangovers and sleep-deprivation, admitting defeat. This time, at least. I also needed to walk across Manchester to make the train to complete the final leg of my journey to Leeds. So, he gave me his number, telling me he’d be waiting for my text the next day once he’d got his phone fixed. We had a hug at the exit, and then I beamed my way to Victoria.
***
A proper train affair, hey? So, a few things – whilst this may make out that I fell madly in love with train guy, I actually fell madly in love with the fact that after a decade of solo train journeys to/from the north and south, across the east to the west and back again, I finally lived out my ten-year fantasy of meeting someone on the train. Ask my friends – and I’ll put hand on heart – if those four hours are all it were to be, I couldn’t have asked for anything more.
Over anything – even his number – I took away from that interaction that people/strangers can still actually speak to one another. If you only take out your headphones, put down your phone, and look up and around at the faces nearby, you’ll see the ones ready to let you into their world for a minute, an hour, an entire journey and beyond.
I also took a real sense of pride away – no doubt this guy was influenced by his hangover, and may have still been slightly tiddled, but he made me feel interesting. He was interested in what I was saying rather than what I’d chosen to wear or how I looked (though he did call me pretty. A few times.) And any reference to the sh*t chat you usually have on a dating app pre-date was magically avoided.
***
Wondering what happened next? Well, I did text him the next day (obviously), but with no expectation at all. He did text back (obviously?), and we enjoyed back-and-forth about our moment. If we’ll actually go for that beer remains to be seen – maybe he’ll wake up tomorrow to a text with the link to this piece.
Oh, and the best part? That’s only the beginning of a whole new world. On a train back from Liverpool the very next weekend, it happened all over again… Choo bloody choo!
Leave a comment