Craic On

Sometimes I feel like a dysfunctional travel correspondent. My tales always seem to involve the extraordinary. I’ve been abandoned on aeroplanes, been refused assistance at train stations and once threatened with arrest for trying to buy a ticket at journeys end because I couldn’t operate the ticket machine at the start of my journey. My reply: “Fine, while you’re calling the police I’ll call the Daily Mail”. My tactic at railway stations is to go to the ticket office and if the queue is likely to take longer than fifteen minutes look for a customer service rep to operate the ticket machine for me. It’s not failsafe. I did this at Liverpool Street station and ended up with a ticket that cost more than double the usual cost. Time was marching on so other than joining the queue, that I probably didn’t have enough water to sustain me through, I’d have to swallow the cost and get on the train. Two revenue inspectors sat next to me so I quizzed them: The ticket machine was not set up to sell me the ticket