How I got stuck in Frome - Part Two
So, last time we saw me I was at Frome train station, being told by a conductor that I was stuck there until morning, a good sixteen hours away.
I'll be honest. I very nearly cried right then and there. I'd been put off by train journeys in the past by thoughts of being stranded in some hellhole, and now those nightmares had become grim reality.
I got off the train(apparently it needed to go back to train land or where-ever trains go to sleep) and shuffled my way down the platform. One of the wheels on my suitcase was broken, so the left corner dragged annoyingly on the ground, gradually wearing a hole in the material.
I reached a bench and sat down, trying to get my bearings. I had roughly twenty pounds on me, most of it in notes, unfortunately. I would have to limit my use of the nearby vending machine to only the most necessary purchases.
I looked up the platform and saw a homeless man talking to himself, and immediately began praying silenty that he would leave the station, and me, alone. I know that I had a home I would eventually get back too, and that homeless people need places like Frome train station to keep(relatively) warm in, but I just don't need a crazy person salting my game.
There was a toilet nearby, the key to which could be obtained from the taxi-cab company that operated in one of the station rooms. So I wouldn't have to pee outside. In a town like Frome, that goes in the 'bonus' column.
I foraged amongst my elephant-skin jacket for my mobile phone, which at the time was a brick-like Ericsson contraption that probably only had four numbers and used rotary-dialing. I called my Mother, explained the situation, made plaintive cries, and was told she'd be there soon.
How soon, you ask?
Four hours. Give or take.