"How are the buses upstairs?!"

Yesterday morning Dave and I needed to catch a bus from London to York. In our defence it should be mentioned that the night before was a big one for some and a long one for others. This is the tale of our misadventure.

The morning started at 6:55 with Dave slapping me awake after noting that my phone's alarm was rousing everyone in the room but me, as I curled protectively around it. After stumbling out of my bed and into some pants I start to pack, with Dave 5 steps ahead of me, knowing that time is of the essence. This is completed quickly enough and we head for the kitchen.

The night before when we got home around 1am, we had started a roast in preparation for this days lunch. Don't ask. It seemed like a fantastic idea at the time. We bundled our drumsticks, spuds and carrots into snap locks then stuffed them in our days packs. By now we are possibly just a touch behind schedule but not noticeably. As Dave finishes filling his water bottle and heads for the door he spies me, gleefully toasting en mass and buttering my booty. A look of confusion is chased from his face by chagrin.

We are now officially running late, not irreparably however.

We set off at a brisk walk to Gloucester Road station, about a 12 min journey. 3 bits of toast fall by the wayside but we make it without losing any more time. However, due to my travel card being short on funds I am forced to attempt to top it up. The two pound coin I produced however wasn't good enough for the machine it seemed and I was forced to surrender a fiver. This minor debacle in turn caused us to miss the immediate train, fear not however. This is London, we got one not 3 minutes later.

If we had been aware of what was to transpire we may have been much more concerned about the time at this point. (Dave would like it to be noted that he was, in fact, rather worried at this time, watching the stations roll by all too slowly.)

We arrive at 'Kings Cross/Saint Pancras' station in short order and head for clear skies above and to where we suspect the buses are. How wrong we were. No buses in site but within the terminal complex we see what appears to be an information kiosk. After an impatient wait behind a woman hell-bent on plumbing the depths of the assistant's knowledge on local eateries, we are told that we are at 'Kings Cross' when we need to be at 'Saint Pancras' to get MegaBus (who knew that they are in fact different stations? All the literature talks of them as one.) We break into a shuffling run and head off down the directed passage, and I nearly clean up a chap in a suit in the process. Still not really clear on where we are or where we are going, I accost a passing member of the station staff and he informs me in a thick French accent “MegaBoos. All the whay to ze end and left” all the while making air hostess-esq hand gestures.

Now running in earnest (packs and all) we hit the end of the terminal and break left, into the frigid London morning. What greeted us here was devastating. A large bus-bay, totally devoid of buses. Not one.
The emotions playing across Dave's face tell the story best. The concerned excitement of not knowing if we would get there on time (but having our destination in our reach), melted away leaving nothing but confusion, frustration and utter dismay in its wake.

By now we were further behind schedule than Eric Moussanbani (http://news.bbc.co.uk/sport1/hi/olympics2000/swimming/931508.stm) was behind the world record in his 2000 Olympics heat.

But wait! Another information kiosk, the little beacons of hope in our morning of despair. We are informed that MegaBus is leaving from just up the nearby escalator.

We bolt. Dave asks with wonder (and perhaps some disbelief), “How are the buses upstairs?!”

Greeting us at the top is a train platform, 4 ticket inspectors, and a MegaBus booth...and once again, not a single bus. Dave presents the fellow in the booth with a scrap of paper with out booking details hastily scrawled on it and we are given in return two orange tickets with a barely legible 'M/B' scribbled on the back, then pointed to the inspectors not 6 steps away. Upon presenting the tickets to one woman, she looks at us as if we are a little mad, and states: “These are not tickets.” We look back to the MegaBus booth, expecting to see the man scampering off, wheeling his scam-booth with him. At our protests that these are indeed tickets, given to us not a moment ago, a senior ticket inspector (oh what a title to posses) steps in and takes over the investigation. He is not interested in our handwritten tickets, but on seeing the afformentioned scrawled booking number, he directs us to the train on the right. I'm pretty sure as he ushered us on board, he could read our faces crying “But this is not a bus!?” We deposited our bags and find a seat still confused. Only then did realisation dawn on us (Dave more so than myself) that it was a train to the Midlands, THEN a bus from there. Someone had forgot to tell us this however. Not one of the four people we asked thought to mention that our MegaBus was a train.

Retrospectively, I quite enjoyed the whole debacle. Though if you were to question Dave, you'd probably get a less enthusiastic response. As I type, we are packing our bags, at Dave's direction. Our train to Edinburgh leaves in just 28 hours. I fear that he'll have us camping on the platform.

J. out