We’ve become recluses [reclusi? Is there even a plural for recluse? Should there be?]! These days, the nights that T and I most look forward to are the rare ones on which we get the chance to spend some quality time with each other, a bottle of wine, and a series of 24. Popcorn and woodburning stove = optional extras.
Recently we took a spontaneous overnight trip to Aberdeen and by chance our hotel was right in the centre of the clubbing district. Having regularly bemoaned the lack of nightlife - discounting the owls and bats - in our village, we contemplated making the most of the location of our temporary lodgings. After a late supper, however, we yawned, crawled into bed, and watched the MTV awards.
How and when did we become so degenerate?
I was reminded of one reason recently. For T’s birthday, I had booked us both onto a cocktail masterclass evening at Harvey Nichols, Edinburgh. The event itself was fantastic, in case you’re interested, and definitely worth attending (although we couldn’t face alcohol for nearly a week afterwards). However, the more complicated part involved finding appropriate transportation. Accepting that driving would be a general heinous idea, we opted for the train. To get to the train, we firstly had to catch a bus from our village to St Andrews, then another bus from there to the nearest station. At the end of the night we had to undergo all of this rigmarole again.
It cost twice as much as we’d normally pay in petrol to drive to Edinburgh, and took more than twice the time. Not only that; the bus drivers were grumpy and unhelpful. No wonder there are significantly more cars per capita in Scotland than in England.
To be fair to the Scottish transport system, I’m always impressed with the quality and service that it offers – I’ve been using the trains regularly for about a year and only once, in the snow, was a service ever cancelled. The longer-distance busses and trains claim to offer wi-fi (although I’ve never been able to focus on a screen for long enough to check this on the bus), and the interiors look like they are the vibrant grand-spawns of London’s crinoline-clad granny carriages.
But then on the other hand the London Underground is so convenient, so quick, so comprehensive. And its map is a certified specimen of design genius. And you need have absolutely no contact with grumpy drivers. I'd give up my plush new Scottish seat in a second for regular doses of such luxury...
For now, however, we have little choice: stay in Scotland, invest in a large DVD rack and wine cellar, hire the occasional chauffeur, and dream of one day returning to London to spend more cash on nights out and less money on transport of dubious quality. Provided, of course, that I've finished watching this episode of 24 beforehand...
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