Woes of a Sunday traveller

My wife Deepali and I were driving to a meeting organised by the South Indian Association, when I got a call from the BBC who wanted to interview me on News 24 over the Shilpa Shetty controversy.

"Could we have you at the studio at 8 PM?" suggested a friendly producer from the News Desk.

I looked at my wife to check if this was OK with her. After all, we had been planning to have dinner at that exact moment suggested by the friendly BBC producer, Daniel, in a restaurant in Kingsbury. I sighed and asked Daniel, "Could we not do it later?"

"9 PM is fine, though not ideal," came the reply.

But my wife had other ideas.

"I don't think we can eat so quickly before half-past eight," she barked in an expressionless manner. "When have we ordered and finished our meal in an hour in a restaraunt? You'd better do your interview first. We can eat in peace after you come back."

Bowing down to the impeccable logic of the woman of the house, I asked the BBC producer to arrange a cab for me from the Church of Ascension in Preston Road, where I was attending the South Indian Society meeting.

At the meeting, one of the Committee Members looked at me imploringly and said, "Could you not join the Committee this year please?"

I smiled and shook my head as best as I could. "No, I really can't. The Hindu Forum of Britain takes up all my spare time."

"You can at least advise us on key issues," she continued with a big smile.

"Yes of course - as long as I don't have to attend meetings," I smiled back.

Daniel from the BBC had promised me I would have a cab pick me up at 7.20 PM from the Church of Ascension Hall. I promptly excused myself at 7.30 PM to check if the cab had arrived. Not a sign..

I called Daniel who gave me a number for the cab company.

"He is only a mile away and will be with you in two minutes sir," said a helpful lady on the line after checking my name and a reference number Daniel had given me.

The two minutes ticked away and became ten, and twenty...and yet there was no sign of the cab at all. I rang Daniel again.

"The cab is nearly twenty minutes late isn't it?" he confirmed. "I shall ring the cab company straight away."

A minute after I spoke to Daniel, the cab finally drew up.

"You are twenty minutes late," I told the cab driver and immediately felt that the tone of my voice could have been less accusatory.

"Not my fault mate," snapped back the driver. "I was in Heathrow when they asked me to do this job, and I had to drive through some hard traffic."

I felt sorry I had snapped at the cab driver and decided to make amends.

"Yes of course, it probably was not your fault. How long will it take to get to White City and the Television Centre?"

The cab driver softened immediately. By the time I left the cab at the BBC Television Centre in White City, he and I had been having a raging conversation about the politics of Bangladesh (which was where he had originally come from).

At the BBC interview, I made various comments about Shilpa Shetty, Jade Goody and Big Brother. After the interview, I was escorted back by another cab to a restaurant where my wife and son were waiting.

After a hearty meal, when we did finally reach home, I suddenly remembered that I had to be in Bolton by 11.30 AM the next day for a consultation meeting with the Hindus of the north of England.

"Bolton?" said my wife in surprise. "How on earth are you getting there so early? It takes three to four hours to travel from home to Bolton."

I checked the internet for train timings and was jolted out of my gentle Saturday reverie.

I had travelled the London-Manchester route by Virgin trains many times on weekdays. Bolton was only 30 minutes from Manchester, and I had thought I could leave home at 7.00 AM to reach Bolton by 10.30 AM, well in time for the meeting at 11.00 AM.

But I had not reckoned with that dreaded British institution called the "Sunday timetable".

Trains and buses run to normal times on weekdays, and most Saturdays. On Sundays however, there always was a reduced service.

Sunday, after all, is a day that very few British people like to travel. It is a day for staying at home with family. Only a few abnormal souls like me undertake to do Sunday travel.

I discovered in dismayed silence, that the first train out of Watford Junction to Manchester Piccadilly was not at 7.00 AM, but at 8.53 AM. The train would only take me to Bolton by 1.00 PM, about 30 minutes after the meeting actually finished.

I couldn't believe that I had actually forgotten all about the dreaded Sunday Timetable. There was no way I could get to the Bolton meeting on time.

Then I remembered that my PA had actually offered to book my tickets for this journey. In some misplaced feeling of chivalry, I had gently brushed her suggestion aside and told her, rather proudly, "Don't worry Rani. You are quite busy today, so I'll try and book my ticket myself. I'll just walk up to the ticket counter at the train station and book the ticket before the journey. It's a simple ticket and I can manage it very well on my own."

I knew I would have to tell her on Monday that I jad completely failed to manage my tickets on my own without her help. I could almost imagine her chuckle with glee to learn of my own incompetence in doing what she does so well.

The woes of a Sunday traveller in Britain can fill an epic novel.