When to panic?

Don’t panic when you hear an announcement that the train you intended to catch is not going to stop at the station nominated by the rail company, at the time specified:even if it will prevent you making a vital connection with another train. Don’t panic. Act.

So there I am, following a miserably sleepless night brought on by worries about making the aforementioned vital connection, standing on a draughty platform at Rotterdam’s roofless and antiquated station. Burdened by my weighty rucksack (how come laptops, guidebooks and peripherals are so bleedin’ ‘eavy?), I’ve already lugged my 15 kilos of wheelie-case down one flight of steps and up another.

But no worries. The board was showing that the 1155 to Brussels ‘Zuid’ was on time, leaving me plenty of time to eat a sandwich made in Belgium upon arrival. Or made in China like everything else. But what was this?

'This’ was an announcement to boldly state that the super-Hi-Speed Thalys (also going to Brussels), though running 45 minutes late, would be along soon. A Thalys 45 minutes late? Lord above. Is nothing sacred? It got worse. An indifferent voice said something like, ‘By the way. Someone has put the train together wrongly and the First Class carriages are at the rear of the train instead of the front. Ons excuses’ (‘Sorry about that’).

My working-class instincts kicked in instantly. Happy as a pig in effluent I watched rich people hauling their designer luggage along the adjacent platform, disgruntlement writ all over their chubby chops. I knew exactly what they were thinking. They were thinking, ‘You just can’t get the staff these days’. Tough!

It got funnier. The Thalys crept into Rotterdam like a high-speed tortoise, and guess what? The flipping First Class carriages were not at the rear of the train but at the front where they so obviously belonged. The tragedy was that I couldn’t see the faces of those affected by the non-change. But I could imagine them and had to stop myself from emitting my Lady MacBeth cackle. Loaded up, off it went as smooth as skins being slid over sausage meat.

Now for the main event. The board showed that my working-class train was still on time - for about three seconds. Then the information disappeared. Gone. In a flash. Just like that. What the f...? My heart skipped a beat as the same indifferent voice said something like, ‘The 1155 to Brussels will not be stopping at Rotterdam today. Ons excuses.’

Ons ex-frigging-cuses? I needed more than that, God dammit, as did many others standing with open mouths, agog, appalled, bewildered. Without hesitation I sprang into action. Grabbing my wheelie-case I hauled it to the steps then lugged it down. But was was this? Younger people, unencumbered by baggage and a heart condition were overtaking me. I tripped up two of them with my walking stick - they didn’t see that coming - but by the time I got to the information desk I was way down the line.

Then, as my forehead leaked sweat down my face and into my beard I heard a voice. A lady staff-member was telling a couple of lady tourists where to go, or what to do and I heard her say, ‘Thalys’. I butted in. ‘To Brussels?‘ ‘Yes sir.’ I shook my fevered brow and all three stepped back to avoid being drenched in manly water. ‘Oh no. The Thalys has gone.’ ‘Oh yes, sir. That was the late Thalys. There is another one here already, but it is going soon. Ask them if you can catch it.’

As the other ladies paused I leaped slowly onto the escalator to platform 1b. Yes, there’s a moving bleeding stairway to the Thalys, steps for the rest of us. I frog-marched myself to the top, did a right and there she was. As I made it onto the empty platform I heard a whistle. That was when I panicked.

Head down, stick in hand, I went into my version of Fifth Gear. The nearest doorway was twenty-five metres away. Further along an arm popped out of another and waved as if to say, ‘Unless you can go faster than that, old fart, you’re going to miss it.’ So I changed into Overdrive and I did not miss it. With the doors snatching at my case I stormed the steps and landed in the space between compartments. ‘Schplunk’ went the doors and off went an on-time Thalys, a TGV intent on reaching three hundred kilometres an hour.

To say I was in a bit of a state is an understatement. Chest heaving and pounding, eyes bulging like a bullfrog trapped in his lady frog's spawn, I leaned against a carriage window. The adjacent door opened soundlessly. Out stepped a man in uniform. Rotund and frowning officiously he said, ‘Ticket.’

Stuttering breathlessly about the frigging train not stopping at Rotterdam today, I offered him my special promotion ‘cheap’ ticket for a non-TGV train to nowhere. His frown deepened. I knew that expression. I’ve been attracting it for about sixty-five years. Here it comes, I thought. ‘You now have to pay...’ But it was not a case of money. ‘Sir,‘ he intoned. ‘You must ask permission before you take this train under those circumstances.‘ HUH?

I could not quite believe my ears but my brain could and it sent a signal to my big mouth. In that so awfully polite English way I found myself saying, ‘I’m dreadfully sorry but time was pressing and I was in a state of panic.’ I’m unsure if his brain processed my state and the use of ‘pressing’, but he had heard the word ‘sorry’. Without further ado he took my case, showed me to a spare seat and after saluting me, left me to count my blessings.

Should you ever be in Rotterdam and your shitty Dutch train to Brussels is cancelled, do not fret. Even if you are already ten minutes late you can still arrive in Brussels twenty-five minutes early. All you have to do is to panic and catch the flying Thalys.