I started out with the best of intentions. I really meant to stick to this "look at the bright side" thing; to maintain Zen-like serenity and calm as chaos swirls around me. But you know what? $*@! it.
It all started yesterday morning. Sundays are usually a happy day, as it's rehearsal day for the show I'm doing in December, "Brenda Bly: Teen Detective." A little singing, a little tap dancing, some jazz hands…it does wonders for my ham of a soul. OK, so rehearsal is in Edgware, a good hour and a half's travel from my place in Shoreditch. OK, so lately getting to Edgware has been a nightmare as planned engineering works on the Northern Line have meant I've had to take a bus, then the Tube, then a rail replacement bus, then walk some in order to get to rehearsal (and allot more than two hours for travel to make sure I arrived at rehearsal on time). When I checked Transport for London's travel planner on Saturday evening, however, no engineering works were reported for Sunday. I breathed a sigh of relief. An easy (although long) trip from Old Street Station to Edgware Station, a mere stroll to the theatre, appeared to be in order. Smooth sailing.
Sunday morning arrived, cold and wet. In England it can rain in every direction all at once, and as I set out for Old Street Station, I realized that despite my wool coat, hat, umbrella, and boots, I was still going to get soaked. I gritted my teeth, muttered "Bright Side," and turned up the volume on my IPod. The latest Russell Brand podcast would keep me in good spirits, I figured. I even managed to grab a coffee before settling myself on the Tube. Why, this trip will be a snap now that all the engineering works are complete, I thought in wonderment. "Bright side," I said to myself with satisfaction, sipping my vanilla latte. My fellow passengers looked at me warily (although crazy folk talking to themselves on the Tube is hardly out of the ordinary). Unfazed, I looked at my watch and smugly realized I'd be almost half an hour early for rehearsal, at the rate I was going. Just enough time to catch up on what I'd missed from last week's rehearsal.
It all started to go wrong when we reached Burnt Oak station (read: not Edgware Station). "All change please," shouted the driver. "This train terminates here. Please use the replacement bus services for Edgware." I sighed. So the engineering works weren't complete. Transport for London lied to me. I walked out of the station into pouring rain, and looked up and down the unfamiliar street for the bus. Not a double-decker in site. I asked a TFL employee in a raincoat when the rail replacement bus would be arriving. He guessed about twenty minutes.
At this point I looked at my watch in panic. I had forty minutes or so until rehearsal started. Having experienced the joy of rail replacement buses in previous weeks, I knew that the bus took a meandering route through North London to Edgware, and would take about half an hour, once it arrived (the last time I took the bus, a charming old woman who obviously wasn't that fond of rail replacement services threw a temper tantrum and screamed at the TFL employees and the bus driver the entire way; it was a terrific journey. She actually threw things). I pulled out my trusty A to Z and asked the TFL employee, Joe, to show me on the map how I could walk to rehearsal. "It's far," he pronounced, shouting to be heard over the downpour. "You can't walk."
To me, the theatre looked to be smack dab in the middle between Burnt Oak and Edgware stations (Note: at this point the ink on the page had run due to aforementioned downpour, so it could be that Joe was right). "I'll walk," I shouted back. "Just tell me what direction to go." Joe shook his head, pointed up a large hill, and I set off, anxiously checking my watch every few minutes.
I walked forever. In driving rain. Uphill. Despite hat, umbrella and hood, my face was soaked. The rain was actually pelting directly into my face. Water dripped down my chin as I picked up the pace and almost ran (well, shuffling quickly; gumboots prevent all-out running).
Finally, I reached the theatre, drenched in rain and sweat. After my thirty five minute speed walk, I happily tap danced for the next three hours, and then headed home again. The return journey didn't seem as gruelling, being a) all downhill and b) post-rehearsal, when I tend to be giddy anyway. I made it home, hung up my things to dry, and made dinner watching my guilty pleasure on TV (Gordon Ramsay's Kitchen Nightmares. Will Gordon get the restaurant up and running again? Will he tell the chef to "show some fucking passion"? Stay tuned!).
I filled the sink with soapy water to do the dishes, but decided to sit down with a cup of tea to watch the TV before I actually got around to washing them. Sunday nights are always early nights, as I have to be up at 4:30 a.m. to leave my house at 5:30 for the first train to Manchester on Mondays, but I figured all my rain-walking and tapping meant I deserved a few minutes of lazing on the couch.
After Gordon had revamped the entire menu for the kitchen nightmare in question, sent the head chef to rehab, and visited 6 months later to see how everyone was getting on (just fabulous, thank you), I went to the sink and began to wash the dishes. I turned on the tap to rinse the first dish.
Nothing happened.
I tried again.
Nothing happened.
Fiddling with the tap, I realized I had neither hot NOR cold water. I ran into the bathroom and turned the knobs on the sink. Nothing. I returned to the kitchen and peered under the sink to see if there was a water main that I'd inadvertently turned off (how, I don't know). Nothing. I pulled out the washing machine (yes, as seen on Location, Location, Location, my washing machine is in the kitchen). I went to look at the boiler. I looked outside my flat to see if there was something I could reset. Nothing. I had no water, and no idea what to do.
Naturally, I did the most useless thing I could do. I called my mother in Canada who has a) never been to my flat and b) is in Canada. She suggested I see if the neighbours had any water, which I did. Both my next door neighbours reported no problems. I then called Thames Water, who said that as far as they could tell, the problem was in my flat, and not with their water system. I hung up in a snit, and called my property management company, Foxtons. Of course, since it was a Sunday night, no one was there, however, I was instructed to "dial 3" for plumbing emergencies, and provided with a number to phone. I breathed a sigh of relief. An emergency plumber, thank god! I called the number.
No answer.
I dialled again.
No answer.
No voicemail.
I left a snotty message for Foxtons, and then Googled "Emergency plumbers 24 hours London." I called the first three that came up, who all informed me that 24 hour emergency plumbers don't work Sunday nights. Finally, I found one who for £200 an hour, would be right over. I sighed. I had no choice: at this point it was 10:30 p.m. I should have been in bed. However, I had a sink full of dirty dishes, and more importantly, I'd been DANCING for three hours and hadn't showered yet. I couldn't leave the house with no shower, leave Currie with no water, and my houseguest arriving on Wednesday morning with no toilet.
The plumber arrived around 11 p.m. After forty minutes of searching, he was at a loss to understand why I had no water, or indeed, where the intake pipe for my water supply was even located. He suspected it might be under my bathtub. Tiled in. I begged him to please make sure this was so before he took a crowbar to my bathroom. He shuffled downstairs and out into the street to see if there was a problem with any of the water mains outside.
In minutes, he came puffing back upstairs, and said he'd found the problem. The off-licence convenience store located on the street, directly below my apartment, had had a burst pipe. They had turned off the water main and had thought they would deal with the problem later. In doing so, they cut off the water supply of the two flats above them. In fact, he said, he'd gotten a call from the flat on the second floor, below me, saying they had no water and could he come and fix their problem? Clearly my downstairs neighbour, like, me, uses the Google method of home repair.
The plumber said he would go into the back of the convenience store and fix the pipe, and proceeded to do so, without a word to the proprietors. The old man who runs the store, and speaks only Turkish (I think it's Turkish) looked on, unconcerned. His son or grandson (one of two young guys who constantly seem to be standing outside guarding watermelons-I have a theory that they are full of heroin, because those watermelons are the most zealously protected watermelons ever) was also there, and so I explained to him what was going on, and what they had done. I also informed him that he would be paying the invoice for the plumber. He translated for Pops, who got very agitated. Although there was much more yelling in Turkish than English translation provided, I was asked/told the following:
• This happens all the time and should only cost £15 to fix.
• I should wait until tomorrow when they could get Cousin Vinnie to fix it.
• They have never heard of a plumber costing £200 an hour (really?).
• I am a stupid girl who doesn't know anything about anything.
There was a lot of shuffling of feet and silence from the grandson while Pops yelled. He only translated when prompted by me (note: I am still totally disheveled from dance rehearsal at this point, with curly frizzy hair and wild eyes, and probably scared the bejesus out of him). When the plumber finished, I cut the tirade short by telling him he'd be repaying me for the plumber, and that was that. At this point, it was almost midnight and I had had enough. I stalked out of the shop, handed the plumber my credit card, shut my eyes and signed the bill, hurriedly packed my bag for my early morning departure. I fell into bed with about 3 hours and 45 minutes before I had to get up again.
Needless to say, it was tough getting up this morning. It was freezing as I stumbled for the shower. However, I made it out the door on time and into my pre-booked taxi. The driver didn't bother to get out of the car to help me load my suitcase into the car. When I climbed in, I was overpowered with the stench of cigarette smoke (Note: non-smoking cab). I sighed. A great start to the day.
"I'm going to Euston station," I said. The driver nodded and rolled his eyes…I guess he figured I didn't need to tell him as I had booked the cab online and specified my destination. We set off, me and my suitcase rattling around the back of the Hackey carriage as the driver sped off in the dark towards Euston. I closed my eyes and tried to breathe through my mouth.
About fifteen minutes later, he pulled to a stop on the street, opened the door, and lugged my suitcase out of the cab before I had time to blink. I looked around me. Normally, when cabs drop me at Euston, they drop me underground, at the taxi rank. We were on a dark street and I couldn't even see the entrance to the station.
"Um, can you tell me where the station is," I said to the driver politely. "They usually drop me right inside the station so I'm not sure where the outside entrance is." The driver looked at me like I was stupid and pointed at the door right in front of me. I looked at the door.
"Um, that's King's Cross Station," I said.
"You want the Eurostar, right?" he said quickly (I had never mentioned the Eurostar). "Then it's that station." He turned around and pointed at St. Pancras Station, down the block.
"No," I said. "I'm going to Manchester. The trains leave from Euston. I booked this cab to Euston."
"Oh yeah," he said. "Sorry" (he clearly wasn't). He threw my suitcase in the back of the cab again, and we headed for Euston. I had about 10 minutes until my train departed. He pulled up in the underground taxi rank (I TOLD YOU SO!), I pulled my suitcase and briefcase out of the car, and ran for the train. In my high heels. I made it with moments to spare. Usually I try to stop at the station before I board the train to grab a healthier breakfast than the Full English that Richard Branson services in First Class on Virgin Trains, but since I didn't have time, I thought, today I'd splurge and have the Great British Breakfast For once I'd make use of that £360 first class ticket my office always buys for me.
They've just made an announcement. Due to a problem with the kitchen car, they won't be serving breakfast on this train. And the store car (where I could have bought a healthy breakfast of crisps and chocolate) is closed for stock taking.
It's three hours to Manchester.
So yeah, the bright side can go to hell, today anyway.
Update: a lorry hit a bridge the train was supposed to crawl. I arrived an hour and a half late.
It all started yesterday morning. Sundays are usually a happy day, as it's rehearsal day for the show I'm doing in December, "Brenda Bly: Teen Detective." A little singing, a little tap dancing, some jazz hands…it does wonders for my ham of a soul. OK, so rehearsal is in Edgware, a good hour and a half's travel from my place in Shoreditch. OK, so lately getting to Edgware has been a nightmare as planned engineering works on the Northern Line have meant I've had to take a bus, then the Tube, then a rail replacement bus, then walk some in order to get to rehearsal (and allot more than two hours for travel to make sure I arrived at rehearsal on time). When I checked Transport for London's travel planner on Saturday evening, however, no engineering works were reported for Sunday. I breathed a sigh of relief. An easy (although long) trip from Old Street Station to Edgware Station, a mere stroll to the theatre, appeared to be in order. Smooth sailing.
Sunday morning arrived, cold and wet. In England it can rain in every direction all at once, and as I set out for Old Street Station, I realized that despite my wool coat, hat, umbrella, and boots, I was still going to get soaked. I gritted my teeth, muttered "Bright Side," and turned up the volume on my IPod. The latest Russell Brand podcast would keep me in good spirits, I figured. I even managed to grab a coffee before settling myself on the Tube. Why, this trip will be a snap now that all the engineering works are complete, I thought in wonderment. "Bright side," I said to myself with satisfaction, sipping my vanilla latte. My fellow passengers looked at me warily (although crazy folk talking to themselves on the Tube is hardly out of the ordinary). Unfazed, I looked at my watch and smugly realized I'd be almost half an hour early for rehearsal, at the rate I was going. Just enough time to catch up on what I'd missed from last week's rehearsal.
It all started to go wrong when we reached Burnt Oak station (read: not Edgware Station). "All change please," shouted the driver. "This train terminates here. Please use the replacement bus services for Edgware." I sighed. So the engineering works weren't complete. Transport for London lied to me. I walked out of the station into pouring rain, and looked up and down the unfamiliar street for the bus. Not a double-decker in site. I asked a TFL employee in a raincoat when the rail replacement bus would be arriving. He guessed about twenty minutes.
At this point I looked at my watch in panic. I had forty minutes or so until rehearsal started. Having experienced the joy of rail replacement buses in previous weeks, I knew that the bus took a meandering route through North London to Edgware, and would take about half an hour, once it arrived (the last time I took the bus, a charming old woman who obviously wasn't that fond of rail replacement services threw a temper tantrum and screamed at the TFL employees and the bus driver the entire way; it was a terrific journey. She actually threw things). I pulled out my trusty A to Z and asked the TFL employee, Joe, to show me on the map how I could walk to rehearsal. "It's far," he pronounced, shouting to be heard over the downpour. "You can't walk."
To me, the theatre looked to be smack dab in the middle between Burnt Oak and Edgware stations (Note: at this point the ink on the page had run due to aforementioned downpour, so it could be that Joe was right). "I'll walk," I shouted back. "Just tell me what direction to go." Joe shook his head, pointed up a large hill, and I set off, anxiously checking my watch every few minutes.
I walked forever. In driving rain. Uphill. Despite hat, umbrella and hood, my face was soaked. The rain was actually pelting directly into my face. Water dripped down my chin as I picked up the pace and almost ran (well, shuffling quickly; gumboots prevent all-out running).
Finally, I reached the theatre, drenched in rain and sweat. After my thirty five minute speed walk, I happily tap danced for the next three hours, and then headed home again. The return journey didn't seem as gruelling, being a) all downhill and b) post-rehearsal, when I tend to be giddy anyway. I made it home, hung up my things to dry, and made dinner watching my guilty pleasure on TV (Gordon Ramsay's Kitchen Nightmares. Will Gordon get the restaurant up and running again? Will he tell the chef to "show some fucking passion"? Stay tuned!).
I filled the sink with soapy water to do the dishes, but decided to sit down with a cup of tea to watch the TV before I actually got around to washing them. Sunday nights are always early nights, as I have to be up at 4:30 a.m. to leave my house at 5:30 for the first train to Manchester on Mondays, but I figured all my rain-walking and tapping meant I deserved a few minutes of lazing on the couch.
After Gordon had revamped the entire menu for the kitchen nightmare in question, sent the head chef to rehab, and visited 6 months later to see how everyone was getting on (just fabulous, thank you), I went to the sink and began to wash the dishes. I turned on the tap to rinse the first dish.
Nothing happened.
I tried again.
Nothing happened.
Fiddling with the tap, I realized I had neither hot NOR cold water. I ran into the bathroom and turned the knobs on the sink. Nothing. I returned to the kitchen and peered under the sink to see if there was a water main that I'd inadvertently turned off (how, I don't know). Nothing. I pulled out the washing machine (yes, as seen on Location, Location, Location, my washing machine is in the kitchen). I went to look at the boiler. I looked outside my flat to see if there was something I could reset. Nothing. I had no water, and no idea what to do.
Naturally, I did the most useless thing I could do. I called my mother in Canada who has a) never been to my flat and b) is in Canada. She suggested I see if the neighbours had any water, which I did. Both my next door neighbours reported no problems. I then called Thames Water, who said that as far as they could tell, the problem was in my flat, and not with their water system. I hung up in a snit, and called my property management company, Foxtons. Of course, since it was a Sunday night, no one was there, however, I was instructed to "dial 3" for plumbing emergencies, and provided with a number to phone. I breathed a sigh of relief. An emergency plumber, thank god! I called the number.
No answer.
I dialled again.
No answer.
No voicemail.
I left a snotty message for Foxtons, and then Googled "Emergency plumbers 24 hours London." I called the first three that came up, who all informed me that 24 hour emergency plumbers don't work Sunday nights. Finally, I found one who for £200 an hour, would be right over. I sighed. I had no choice: at this point it was 10:30 p.m. I should have been in bed. However, I had a sink full of dirty dishes, and more importantly, I'd been DANCING for three hours and hadn't showered yet. I couldn't leave the house with no shower, leave Currie with no water, and my houseguest arriving on Wednesday morning with no toilet.
The plumber arrived around 11 p.m. After forty minutes of searching, he was at a loss to understand why I had no water, or indeed, where the intake pipe for my water supply was even located. He suspected it might be under my bathtub. Tiled in. I begged him to please make sure this was so before he took a crowbar to my bathroom. He shuffled downstairs and out into the street to see if there was a problem with any of the water mains outside.
In minutes, he came puffing back upstairs, and said he'd found the problem. The off-licence convenience store located on the street, directly below my apartment, had had a burst pipe. They had turned off the water main and had thought they would deal with the problem later. In doing so, they cut off the water supply of the two flats above them. In fact, he said, he'd gotten a call from the flat on the second floor, below me, saying they had no water and could he come and fix their problem? Clearly my downstairs neighbour, like, me, uses the Google method of home repair.
The plumber said he would go into the back of the convenience store and fix the pipe, and proceeded to do so, without a word to the proprietors. The old man who runs the store, and speaks only Turkish (I think it's Turkish) looked on, unconcerned. His son or grandson (one of two young guys who constantly seem to be standing outside guarding watermelons-I have a theory that they are full of heroin, because those watermelons are the most zealously protected watermelons ever) was also there, and so I explained to him what was going on, and what they had done. I also informed him that he would be paying the invoice for the plumber. He translated for Pops, who got very agitated. Although there was much more yelling in Turkish than English translation provided, I was asked/told the following:
• This happens all the time and should only cost £15 to fix.
• I should wait until tomorrow when they could get Cousin Vinnie to fix it.
• They have never heard of a plumber costing £200 an hour (really?).
• I am a stupid girl who doesn't know anything about anything.
There was a lot of shuffling of feet and silence from the grandson while Pops yelled. He only translated when prompted by me (note: I am still totally disheveled from dance rehearsal at this point, with curly frizzy hair and wild eyes, and probably scared the bejesus out of him). When the plumber finished, I cut the tirade short by telling him he'd be repaying me for the plumber, and that was that. At this point, it was almost midnight and I had had enough. I stalked out of the shop, handed the plumber my credit card, shut my eyes and signed the bill, hurriedly packed my bag for my early morning departure. I fell into bed with about 3 hours and 45 minutes before I had to get up again.
Needless to say, it was tough getting up this morning. It was freezing as I stumbled for the shower. However, I made it out the door on time and into my pre-booked taxi. The driver didn't bother to get out of the car to help me load my suitcase into the car. When I climbed in, I was overpowered with the stench of cigarette smoke (Note: non-smoking cab). I sighed. A great start to the day.
"I'm going to Euston station," I said. The driver nodded and rolled his eyes…I guess he figured I didn't need to tell him as I had booked the cab online and specified my destination. We set off, me and my suitcase rattling around the back of the Hackey carriage as the driver sped off in the dark towards Euston. I closed my eyes and tried to breathe through my mouth.
About fifteen minutes later, he pulled to a stop on the street, opened the door, and lugged my suitcase out of the cab before I had time to blink. I looked around me. Normally, when cabs drop me at Euston, they drop me underground, at the taxi rank. We were on a dark street and I couldn't even see the entrance to the station.
"Um, can you tell me where the station is," I said to the driver politely. "They usually drop me right inside the station so I'm not sure where the outside entrance is." The driver looked at me like I was stupid and pointed at the door right in front of me. I looked at the door.
"Um, that's King's Cross Station," I said.
"You want the Eurostar, right?" he said quickly (I had never mentioned the Eurostar). "Then it's that station." He turned around and pointed at St. Pancras Station, down the block.
"No," I said. "I'm going to Manchester. The trains leave from Euston. I booked this cab to Euston."
"Oh yeah," he said. "Sorry" (he clearly wasn't). He threw my suitcase in the back of the cab again, and we headed for Euston. I had about 10 minutes until my train departed. He pulled up in the underground taxi rank (I TOLD YOU SO!), I pulled my suitcase and briefcase out of the car, and ran for the train. In my high heels. I made it with moments to spare. Usually I try to stop at the station before I board the train to grab a healthier breakfast than the Full English that Richard Branson services in First Class on Virgin Trains, but since I didn't have time, I thought, today I'd splurge and have the Great British Breakfast For once I'd make use of that £360 first class ticket my office always buys for me.
They've just made an announcement. Due to a problem with the kitchen car, they won't be serving breakfast on this train. And the store car (where I could have bought a healthy breakfast of crisps and chocolate) is closed for stock taking.
It's three hours to Manchester.
So yeah, the bright side can go to hell, today anyway.
Update: a lorry hit a bridge the train was supposed to crawl. I arrived an hour and a half late.