THE 1970s are back, with recession and a wave of unemployment. On the railways, they never went away. There they've always espoused the values of the 70s. Their motto: "Can't do that. The system won't let me."
But let's start at the beginning. On the trains, a ticket system has been introduced which is so complex it makes derivatives seem simple. The City, brought down by financial instruments, should move into travel ones. Customers don't know what they'r
e buying and what they may have to pay on top.
I make the assumption an "anytime ticket" lets me go on all dates and trains. It doesn't. Apparently my ticket is an off-peak anytime ticket.
Arguing about the idiocy of "off-peak anytime" would make anyone feel off and peaky. I hasten to the buffet after the announcement is made that it is to shut shortly for stock-taking. How come cafés without wheels can stay open all day without closing for stock-taking?
The buffet is 70s central. At the counter, a woman consults her watch and nods. I would like a white coffee, but regard the small cartons of liquid served along with railway coffee with suspicion. They contain non-milk fat. You are meant to think they contain non-fat milk. I don't know what non-milk fat is. To me, it's an airy-fairy dairy concept. Take away the adjective. Would you drink something labelled "fat'" No. Why am I being asked to do it during transit?
On smarter days, when I have booked ahead and secured the comfort of first class, things are different. I know, therefore, there is real milk on the train. But between me and it lies the buffet woman, who wears spectacles and has a small red line across the chin, which may be her lips but could also be a varicose vein.
I ask for normal milk.
"Can't give you that," she says.
I tell her I know there is normal milk on the train, raising an eyebrow, sounding clandestine on an inappropriate topic. It felt like a line from a James Bond script, should a plot ever involve consignments of illicit white liquid. Could I not just have a tiny dash of it?
The varicose vein purses more. "That's first-class milk," she says.
It's impossible not to echo her in disbelief. "First-class milk?"
She nods.
"Non-fat cow," I say.
"I beg your pardon," she bridles.
"Is that where non-milk fat comes from?" I clarify.
A dramatic scene in the refreshment room ensues. It is a rude rather than brief encounter. I never get my first-class milk. That would be getting ideas above my station, which one cannot do on Britain's railways. In any decade.
It's a bit like Father ChavmasONLY 22 per cent of Scots will put lights outside their homes this Christmas, the latest consequence of the economic downturn. At last, some good headlines: 'Credit crunch curtails bungalow bling.' 'Rudolph with his nose not-so-bright.' As well as a reprieve for good taste, this news may also affect consumer sentiment. Nothing plunges an entire street into low socioeconomic status more than a neighbour with plugged-in glitz. Laying on an elaborate exterior light show is like a seasonal satellite dish. It's a bit Father Chav-mas.
If fewer homes are thus decorated, areas will appear higher status, and people will subconsciously feel: 'Oh we're not CD. We must be ABC1.
Which means we have money to spend.' Fairylight frugality may
yet revive the economy more than interest-rate cuts. Or have I
just read Alistair Darling's letter to Santa?
The full article contains 624 words and appears in The Scotsman newspaper.
