Stuck in a sleeper service corridor with some other people

Stuck in a sleeper service corridor with some other people

The corridors of the sleeper train were very narrow and I kept getting wedged.
‘The doors to the cabins are all numbered’, the attendant pointed out.
He was wearing a cap, just like he was a policeman.
‘I spilled coffee on my ticket’, I explained. ‘Right on the part where my cabin number was printed’.
‘Can I just get past?’
‘I’m trying’.
‘Just turn to the left a bit’.
‘OK’.
‘No, my left’.
‘Damn’.
He tried to squeeze through the very small gap.
‘Are you wearing CK One?’, I asked.
‘What?’
‘Nothing’.
I didn’t really need such a big backpack. The only reason I was wearing such a big backpack was because my sister had asked if I could bring over her big backpack.
‘I’ve never seen such a big backpack’, the attendant said.
The train began to move out from the grand city terminus. It did so with something of a jolt. I fell sideways and my cheek rubbed against the abrasive carpeted wall of the narrow corridor.
‘For god’s sake!’, I said.
‘What?’
‘Nothing’.
Halfway along the corridor of the next carriage we came across another attendant leading another man in a big backpack.
‘We’re going to have to back up’, my attendant said.
‘Is there anyone behind me?’
‘I can’t see, your big backpack is in the way’.
I started walking backwards.
‘Hey! Watch it!’, a young lady said.
‘Sorry, I’m a little . . .’.
‘You’re not a little anything, buster!’
‘Can you back up?’, the attendant asked.
‘I’m trying!’
‘There’s someone behind me, now’, the young lady said. The young lady who had called me ‘buster’.
‘Why can’t the other guy back up?’, I asked.
‘We’re almost at his cabin’, the other attendant pointed out. ‘He’s got his ticket but he had spilled tea on the part where his room number was printed. So he came to me and asked if I could help him find his cabin’.
‘Hey!’, the other man said, ‘I’m right here, you know?’
‘Tea, eh?’ I asked.
‘Yeah’.
‘It was coffee on mine’.
‘What?’
‘Never mind’.
‘If everyone could just back up five metres . . .’.
‘What’s that in feet?’, the young lady asked.
‘Haven’t you gone metric, yet?’, I asked.
‘What’s that?’
We back up.
‘Hey! Watch it with that backpack!’
‘It’s a big backpack’
‘I can see that! You almost took my nose off! Why has it got so many pockets and sticky-out bits? I’ve never seen a backpack with so many protuberances’.
‘Well, I don’t really . . .’.
‘And what’s happened to your cheek?’
‘It’s carpet burn’.
‘Ohhhh-kayyyy’.
We all back up a bit.
‘You know what? It’s my mistake’, the other attendant says. ‘Sorry about that’.
He and the other man with the big backpack try to turn around in the narrow confines of the corridor but now they have someone behind them, a man and a lady.
‘Hey, are we going in the right direction for the buffet car?”
‘We just need to back up a bit’.
‘Do we still need to back up, here?’ the young lady behind me asks.
‘I don’t know at the moment’.
‘The website said there would be bacon baps’, the man behind the other man with the big backpack says.
‘The website makes all kinds of promises’, the young lady behind me calls out.
‘Oh yeah? Like what?’
‘I took this train last year and went to the buffet, which they said would be open all night. And I fancied a sausage roll. The only thing they had left was lemon drizzle cake’.
‘I could just go some lemon drizzle cake right now’, the lady with the man the other side of the other man with the other big backpack says.
‘And it was expensive, too’ the young lady behind me says.
‘How much?’
‘I didn’t get much change from six quid’.g
‘You know, you’re talking right over the top of us!’, I say. It’s true to say that I was getting slightly peeved at this moment.
‘How far away is the buffet?’, the other lady asked,
‘It’s a long train. It’s about half a kilometre’.
‘Oh, so all of a sudden you’ve gone metric?’ I ask.
‘Butt out of it, buster!’
‘What’s the hold up, here?’ the man with the other lady asks.
‘Backpackers’, the young lady replies.
‘I’m not a backpacker!” I say, by way of protest. ‘I’m just delivering a backpack’.
‘But you’re wearing a backpack’.
‘Yes’.
‘So you’re a backpacker’.
‘A backpacker implies someone who travels a lot with a backpack, so much so that it becomes an intrinsic part of their identity. I’m merely travelling with a backpack . . But it’s just . . You know . . A one off’.
‘Don’t get all semantic with me!’
‘I’m a backpacker’, the other man with a backpack says.
‘Oh, where have you been?’, the young lady asks.
‘All over. The Far East. Australia. Jungle. Desert. You name it’.
‘Right’, the attendant says. ‘Are we backing up, or not?”
At this point, the door next to me opened and a young lady looked out into the corridor.
‘What’s all the fuss about?’ she asked.
‘Just a traffic jam’.
‘Oo, how exciting! Mind if I film it?’
‘What for?’
‘I make YouTube videos of my travel adventures’.
‘I’d rather you didnt’, I explained.
‘I wouldn’t mind’, the other man the other side of the other man with the backpack said.
‘Me neither’, the young day behind me added.
‘Let me get my camera’.
‘I’m making a YouTube travel documentary too!’, the other man with the backpack said. ‘How crazy is that!’
‘Boom!’, the young lady in the cabin said.
‘Boom indeed’, the other man with the backpack said. ‘And I must say . . Have I seen you somewhere before?’
‘Yes, I think I’ve seen some of your videos, aren’t you Tim Travels Light?’
‘That’s me!’
‘Travels light? With that huge backpack?’ I say.
‘You’re a fine one to talk!’
‘I’m just delivering this to my sister’.
‘So you keep saying. I reckon you’re a closet backpacker’.
‘Is that a euphemism?’ the young lady behind me said.
‘Listen, can everyone just back up to the end of this carriage, where there’s a vestibule?’, the attendant asked. ‘This is becoming a health and safety issue’.
‘I’ll see you later, Tim’, the lady in the cabin says.
‘You too’.
‘We’ll meet in the buffet tonight, they’ve got a cracking array of lemon drizzle cakes’.
She slides her door closed. We all shuffle a bit backwards and it is at this moment that I realise that one of the many toggles dangling down from my big backpack has got shut in her door.
‘Can we all just move?’, the attendant says.
‘I can’t!’
‘Just take three steps . . ‘.
‘I can’t! I’m trapped in her door’.
‘Did someone mention the buffet?’ the woman with the man the other side of the man with the other backpack says.
The train rattles over some points and wobbles a bit. I stumble sideways, which puts extra strain on the toggle caught in the cabin door. The toggle suddenly pings out and, on its elasticated string, whacks me straight in the nose.
‘Bloody hell!”
‘What?’
‘My nose!’
‘Carpet burn?’, the lady behind me asked.
‘It just pinged out!’
‘What’s going on here?’ the attendant asked.
‘Hi viewers! One of the many downsides of travelling by sleeper train is the fact that you occasionally get traffic jams in the narrow corridors’, the other man with the backpack says.
He’s filming himself with his camera.
‘But what I’m absolutely stoked about – Boom! – is that World Weary Wendy is also on this very train! Catch up with us tonight in the buffet where we shall be live streaming a midnight drink. Meanwhile . . . Just look at this!”
He turns the camera around and then begins filming the rest of us.
‘For goodness sake!’ I say, putting a hand over my face.
‘This really is one of the drawbacks of travel. But at least you meet such wonderful people . . ‘.
‘Hi!’, the lady behind me says, poking her head in the gap between me and the wall. ‘It’s such an honour to meet Tim Travels Lightly!’
At this moment a chef in a white uniform carrying a dish arrives behind the lady behind me.
‘Can everyone please move up to the far end of the corridor! I’ve got a beef stew and dumplings to deliver to the next carriage!’
Everyone groans and we all begin shuffling in the opposite direction. The other man in the backpack has to walk backwards because he can’t see where he’s going.
‘I don’t see why we should have to move just because someone’s ordered their dinner!’, the other man is saying,
But at least I’m now moving in a direction that suits the way that I’m facing. I look down at my ticket one last time to see if I can make out which cabin I am meant to be in.
‘Hang on’, I say to the attendant, ‘this is the 2145, isn’t it’.

A funny thing happened on the way to the poetry recital.

One of the strangest things about being a performance poet is that I am, obviously, not a performance poet all the time. In fact, when you think about it, I’m probably only a performance poet at those moments when I’m on the stage or behind a mic, performing poetry. The rest of the time, I’m just an anonymous bloke.

Because I have an anonymous job and I live in an anonymous town, and the clothes I wear when I’m at work or at home or going round the town are nothing like the clothes I wear when I’m performing poetry. And while it’s true that most of my spare time is taken up with admin, emails, research, watching video clips of other performance poets, and of course, the actual writing and rehearsing of performance poems, I still have the mindset of being just an ordinary person, until the moment,of course, that I arrive at the gig.
Last week I had a gig in Exeter at the Apples and Snakes Spokes Amaze evening. It’s always a wonderful night of energy and poetic brilliance and I like it especially that I can just pop up on the train. So I got into costume and I got out my set list to do some last minute adjustments when, at the next station, a group of drunk lads got on.
They were hammered. Posh, hammered drunk lads in shirts, all called Tarquin and Maurice. And as the train carried on into the early evening I kind of sunk down in my seat a little bit, hoping that their loud joshing to each other would make me somehow anonymous. But I was wearing my poetry costume. The tweed jacket,the glasses, the spiky hair, and worse still, I had my briefcase and my large sparkly hat decorated with fairy lights. I wasn’t exactly inconspicuous.
Eventually one of them asked me where I was going and I had to tell him, hoping that they would leave me alone. But they were most interested indeed. Drunk, loud and interested. What kind of poetry? Comedy poetry? Do you like Michael McIntyre? Do you like The Pub Landlord? Make us laugh, then.
I knew that I could probably have said anything at this point and they would have laughed. They wanted me to get up and put the hat on, and then do some poetry. A part of me wanted to get off as soon as possible, but another part of me realized that this was a golden opportunity not only to perform in front of a brand new audience and bring poetry to a place where it had never been before, but also, I could use it as a practice for my forthcoming set.
So I got up and went through a couple of poems, right there at the front of the carriage. And they loved it. And the conductor loved it. And the other passengers, some of whom were watching, seemed to tolerate it. And when I finished, they all cheered and clapped. They took turns wearing the hat. Tarquin went and sat in the luggage rack and recited one of my poems from the notebook. It was a strange, yet ultimately fulfilling start to the evening.
As luck would have it, a lad got on at the next stop who looked just like Ed Sheeran, and to top it all off, he was a singer too. So they made him perform and I was able to concentrate again on my set for the gig.
Only afterwards did I think how weird the whole experience was. The lads weren’t louts, but they were certainly loud. They weren’t violent or silly, but they’re still not the sort of people I’d hang around with, even though they shall wanted to go for a drink with me.
I have, of course, been in touch with Apples and Snakes to see if they can throw some extra cash my way for bringing poetry to carriage two of the Paignton to Exmouth train. They have yet to respond.
Anyway, here’s a new poem.

LUMINOUS SUPER FUN TOKYO MASSIVE BODY SURPRISE


I’m becoming Tokyo.

I used to be a human being.

But now I’m becoming Tokyo.

My fingers are now motorway bridges. 

My face is the Roppongi district.

My teeth are now neon.

My chin is the metro system.

Instead of living in a house 

I now surround a bay.


I used to have an armpit.

Now I have an airport.

I used to have two armpits.

Now I have two airports.


People didn’t use

To be able to find me

In my cosy little house

But now they look at a map

Of Japan and they say,

There he is!


I went to a bar

And I asked for a beer

And the barman said,

I’m sorry, but you are a whole

City and there’s no room

For you in here

Unless the laws of physics were to be

Somehow contravened.

So I had a cola and sat outside.


You should see my Mount Fuji.

It’s huge.

The doctor has given me a cream

For it.


Arms length out like

Supple bullet train

Shinkansen just far enough

To tickle Kyoto

Ha ha ha rumble rumble

Is that an earthquake?

No, I just told you,

I tickled Kyoto

Super bouncy fun happy.


I look through a magnifying glass

At my own arm

See Ginza shopping district shoppers

Shopping in the shops with their shopping

When I sneeze they

Put up umbrellas

And they carry on shopping

Posing for selfies next

To my wristwatch.


Skyscraper head antennas

Winking like eyes blinking

Spikey-haired towers voluminous

Suspended roadway ninja hung clinging

Motorbike sounds karaoke rhythmic feet

From subway constant noise

No wonder my friends stay away from me

And the Tshirt I bought last week

Just doesn’t fit

Since I started my metropolitan

Metamorphosis

And this poem has got now

Far too many syllables

To be a haiku.