Spurostar

It’s probably only fair to turn a little bit of wrath towards Eurostar.  Now I’m not the sort to get frustrated by the snow.  We can’t do anything about it, after all, and let’s face it, we don’t get or need that much practice at it.  So I don’t mind if transport grinds to a halt, and I quite appreciate a bit of snow and ice, as long as I don’t fall over too often.  No, last Friday was occasioned by the snow, but let’s not let that be an excuse for a simple case of fuckwitted management.  Eurostar phone man told me it was first come, first served for those whose trains, like mine, had been cancelled.  Get there early and you’ll get on a train.

So you might expect that they had some queueing arrangements in place at the Gare du Midi?  Had they bollocks.  No system, no information, no calm.  A melee of angry travellers.  After nearly two hours in one queue I got to the front and was told it was the wrong one.  So I spent another hour and three quarters in the adjacent one.  When the original one started moving I walked up to the front to ask what was going on, and practically got lynched on the spot; beaten to death with wheely suitcases.  One woman, incandescent with rage, wailed at me, “But you’re supposed to be British!”.  Once through check in, another two hours before the train left.  We then crawled all the way to London.  Door to door, it took eleven and a half hours.

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