60 miles off track

During my schooldays - and some of my college days - I had a tendency to be "bang on late". Once I started working, of course, I had to cure this. So I went completely the other way, and now I go everywhere early. I actually start twitching if I'm not at least an hour early for work.

Sometimes, when I find myself killing time in cafes or waiting in the cold, I wonder if this militant, compulsive earlyness is really worth it. Then something happens to remind me why I do what I do.

Yesterday just such a thing happened. I hopped on a train from Doncaster to Sheffield for my half-six shift at the theatre...then as it pulled out the tannoy announced the destination. Why do they do this? Why do they wait till the doors are closed and you're starting to move? Why, why, why must they make you watch in horror as your train carries you away from the place you suddenly so desperately want to go back to? Anyway, as you'll have gathered, the train wasn't going to Sheffield. It was going to Newcastle. We've all done it eh? The first stop was York - over 60 miles from my intended destination.

Two hours, one surly conductor, one nice information desk lady, and a jolly conductor in a bright pink tie later, and I'd been called a silly billy and put on a train back to Doncaster, caught another train to Sheffield, and got to work.
On time.