An announcement came over the tannoy when the train drew into Newcastle Central railway station: ‘Due to circumstances beyond our control, this service will wait here for thirty minutes. Please could all passengers disembark and return after supper.’
By the time that we had prised my elderly mother out of her seat and crossed the road to the cafés and restaurants, the thirty minutes were almost up. We had only walked a short way when TPR suggested that he best return to the train with my mother. In the meantime, I should seek some takeaway food for us all to bring back to our carriage.
Having lost track of time looking for something decent to eat, I needed to ring TPR and tell him that I might not reach the train in time. But I no longer had my mobile phone! Had I lost it, or was it stolen?
I ran down the steps of the grand Victorian town hall in the direction of the station. Half way down, a smartly dressed man popped out of a red telephone box and handed me a small object – the missing mobile phone. Across the screen was some wording to apologise for the earlier theft. This man was a phone pincher with a conscience.
In my hurry to reach the train I mistakenly entered the station by an entrance that was officially closed. Climbing over the makeshift barriers wasted even more valuable time. Would the train leave without me?
As if in answer to this question, two members of LNER staff stepped forward on the platform to welcome me back to Newcastle Central station with a glass of chilled white wine. They then escorted me to the waiting carriage.
Dreamaticus 