You know how some older people always seem to start their speech with "...well...in my day! ..." then trail off into a litany of things that were ever so good with 'their' time? Well, last week I found myself doing just that and wondered if they were so wrong. Could it be that as time passed on things just got naturally worse? Or was it simply an evolution of things and time and ways?

As I stood at my usual spot at the Milton Keynes train station I began to observe the differences in the way people moved and interacted. A difference that was not just due to a question of culture, but an attitude that I can only term, 'the new way'.

A train about to leave Ashford International station. The Eurostar terminal is behind it. (Photo: Alan Newble)

Breaking into my 'hmmmms' and 'wows' was a familiar but not too welcome announcement: 'The train now approaching platform 5 is the 8:11 Virgin Pendolino Service to Wolverhampton, calling at Coventry, Birmingham International, Birmingham New Street and Wolverhampton.'

That was my dear friend the recorded voice I recently dubbed Mr Bad News. All too often these days his reports are prefaced with apologies which never really seemed very sorry. At 8:14 my train was three minutes late. Even though I was thanking God for small mercies - it could have been its usual seven - I was still not happy.

While on the surface this may seem like 'no big deal' to those in more laid-back cultures, here in the UK such information is the source of great stress.

A late train brings with it cataclysmic consequences in the chain of events that make up scheduled travel. Three minutes late plus two-and-a-half more for pick-up means train 'A' will be five-and-a-half minutes behind train 'B'.

'A' may then have to be placed in a holding position for three to four minutes - to avoid possible collisions - which takes you to an approximate eight-minute delay. With eight minutes biting into your routine you could find that you've missed your next connection or your next job.

According to my father, in 'his day' you could almost bet your life on anything run by the English clock. But I see now that that time had obviously long passed by with umbrella canes, top hats and knee-length knickers.

A man who, to my memory, was rarely late (except in answering his children when pressed for spending money) my father always insisted that we gave ourselves ample time for 'in case of's' on our journeys; a lesson that would prove wise in my later years. This morning in question, it has again come in handy.

Looking at the rush-hour crowd darting about with distress on their brow and impatience in their step, I sigh with gratitude and satisfaction - I was beginning to get the hang of this... an hour's idle wait was much better than late - the 'snooze button' was no longer part of my actions.

With the train now at a halt, the man across the bench angrily crushes his cigarette and struts toward the closest carriage. Very little notice is made of the frustrated mother trying unsuccessfully to collapse her baby's stroller. Nor is care given to the fact that disembarking passengers are having a difficult time getting off. Everyone there has the intention of going on first and no thoughts on courtesy can change that.

I make my way onto the already packed car and count myself lucky in getting on at all, much less finding a seat next to 'cigarette guy'. Realising that while my bag was fine as a pull, lifting it is cumbersome.

So I look around for some sign of assistance; a half-hearted expectation, knowing none had ever before been given. I place it on the overhead rack with much effort and manoeuvre my way past the outstretched feet before me, to the seat by the window 'Sir Cigarette' had chosen not to take.

No inconvenience here, I thought. Just for the shock value I utter my chirpiest good morning and am equally surprised when he mumbles a response. But as I warm to his greeting I notice with embarrassment that he's actually speaking to his phone. The lady with the baby (who is but a baby herself) is giving me a piteous look, pleading for my seat but happily someone beats me to the offer.

The train pulls out and immediately the papers, magazines and books go up; faces are hidden and the only sound you hear is the lull of the train's engine...oh yes, and cigarette man talking to his Motorola. The Sun is directly in front, Marie Clair is to the opposite right and a woman across the way is just about on her last chapter of Goleman's Emotional Intelligence. I begin to marvel at the peculiar 'wonder' of the whole idea of trains - picking up and dropping off loads of strangers who hardly ever acknowledge the presence of anyone else around them.

In comparison it may seem similar to that of a plane, but considering that most air journeys involve one destination and arrival point there is almost an unstated common bond with the surrounding passengers. For in your mind you feel a certain kinship - you all left Kingston for Miami, more than likely for round about the same reason... shopping... meeting... vacation... and so it's almost as if you are working on the same team.

Then in the case of a bus it is normal to encounter people living within your own town and environs, the same ones you'll see at the same time next trip. But a train, with its many stops in counties miles apart, picks up thousands of travellers getting off, getting on, off to work, on sight-seeing tours, visiting family and so many varied reasons; people you'll likely never see again.

How fascinating and at the same time how powerful and sad; to think that one - if bold enough to brave the 'chat up' - could meet the person of their dreams and then be forced to get off at the very next stop. I notice my 'cigarette guy' has ended his call and switched to a new technology. He begins to click madly away at a diagram on his laptop - images that look like sneakers.

Ah, maybe he's the guy who designs Nike UK... or Reebok... or Air Jordans even... off I go into fairy-tale land making up my own peripheral stories. The woman across the way is skilfully applying her make-up in between shakes and jolts, and the man sitting next to her seems to have found a safe spot on the tip of my left shoulder on which he finds comfort in steering - heaven forbid if our eyes should ever meet. I'm again struck by this oddity.

Thinking back to my days of train travel in Jamaica, I struggle to find this sort of detachment - my clearest memories begin as early as nine years old, and although there was nothing specifically significant about these trips they always seemed fun and engaging. But then, maybe that was because I was seeing my
journeys through childhood eyes.

I vaguely remember having to wake up terribly early to catch the 6 o'clock train. We would make our way downtown Kingston to Barry Street to get the service to St James. Visiting daddy's birthplace was our summer's delight, and taking the diesel was our only option when he didn't feel like driving. Sometimes we practically begged him not to drive so we could take the long ride on the 'Choo Choo'.

The early rise of 5:00 am never felt like a problem as we knew we'd be rewarded in a short while with boiled corn, peppered shrimp, bammy and fish and cashews from the vendors at the various stations.

Where we put all that food no one knows, but they had to be bought on every trip. From Gregory Park to Spanish Town, Old Harbour through to May Pen, Balaclava, to Cambridge with other stops in-between, the joy was in the events of travelling. Daddy must have owned about 12 of those shirts you could commission from the ladies in St Elizabeth...

At this time I feel myself giggling out loud and 'cigarette man' is eyeing me with suspicion. Wondering perhaps when would be my stop or if he would need to move.

I allay his fears by reverting to my 'city girl scowl' and return to my morning dreaming. I wonder on how nice it would be if Jamaica had this great train service again, what ease in travel it would make; having cars just for weekend and leisure travel and actually getting to destinations without the frustration of traffic.

I imagine the money people could save on petrol and car maintenance and the amount of work that could actually get done, people arriving less fatigued from not having to sit through bottlenecks and even doing paperwork on their journey - like the man immediately next to me and the people a few seats in front. Productivity would take on a whole new meaning. But there I went again, musing on the fantastical.

With the announcement of the next stop I notice that the lady with the make-up kit had left and her place was taken by a guy with more piercings than a ring-bound folder. His thumbs moving almost as fast as the vehicle we're in, tapping on the face of his mobile - texting is now the new way of talking...

Gone as well is the mother with child and in her spot is a guy holding the Metro news - 'All hail Fredeye Flintoff' it reads above the not-too-flattering picture of England's cricket hero. Andrew Freddie Flintoff is unabashedly gazing into the camera with his rum-shot eyes held barely open by his smile.

The night before, he and 25,000 cricket supporters celebrated in the streets of Trafalgar Square, England's win of the Ashes Test cricket series - the first time in 18 years; his choices of fermented brew making him the worse for wear.

My, I'm thinking, how the look of this game has changed.
In the same publication is news that whilst fans chanted rowdy songs through the streets of the West End, staff at the upscale Harvey Nichols department store were mourning the loss of one of their own. A cosmetics counter clerk had been murdered in a supposed domestic dispute on the first floor that evening.

The 'blond' was reportedly shot by a man described as a 'normal-looking white guy', who then turned the gun on himself. My, how presenting the news had changed.

But that isn't the article holding the attention of this new passenger, it's the 'one week's petrol sold in a day' headline. Spurred on by members of the People's Fuel Lobby, motorists were urged to protest the sky-rocketing price of UK oil.

And even though the head of the group denied planning a boycott as rumoured by the press, panicked drivers started stocking up on fuel in fear of a repeat of blockades from five years ago. Gas station forecourts all over the country had queues lined around the bend. Some filling stations even reported to have run out of the precious commodity. I wondered for a good long moment where exactly I was - island Jamaica or island Great Britain.

But now I'm thinking, at least they have an alternative, public transport works well enough. Even though Jamaica's protests on September 6 included many other complaints, striking 'oil prices' off the list of reasons to 'block roads' may just have meant one less burning tyre or fridge. In my ear I am hearing - 'The train now standing on platform 1 is the 7:37 Jamaica Railway Service to
May Pen Clarendon. Calling at Gregory Park...Old Harbour... and...Clarendon.'

But it seems I must have dozed off. Nice dream, though. I figure what order that could put to many a life, even at the cost of an occasional seven-minute delay. I'm almost sure there are many who would see that as a pretty fair trade...

'We are now approaching Birmingham International. Birmingham International is our next stop.' That's the real one. Time for me to busy myself with figuring out the easiest way out of this now fairly empty coach, and although I have loads of time before my next connection I still don't fancy going all the way to Wolverhampton.

Struggling to remove my 'way too heavy bag', I think once more of my father, and somehow this moment '...well in my day...' doesn't seem too bad. His ideas of how things should perhaps be could be given some re-examining. For, this I'm sure, if he had his way, the young pram pusher would have been kept in much tighter reins - no boyfriend before 18, no family before she's ready.

Passenger trains would still be running to MoBay, and some kind gentleman would have helped me with my bag. Though the latter I could work around by packing less clothing, the first two may remain just a 'what if' or a dream. But old-time or modern-day, they would be on my list of 'old days and ways' we 'new time thinkers' could put right back on track.

TRAIN FACTS

The British railway system is the oldest in the world.

Connecting trains run throughout Europe from as far north as Norway, Sweden and Finland and as far south as Portugal, Spain and Italy.

As long as you have a Eurailpass or ticket is as far as you can ride.
Train services began in Jamaica in 1845 and ended in 1992.

The fear factor

Feeding the multitude

DANGEROUS PETS