I took a Transpennine train from Leeds to Manchester Piccadilly this afternoon.
To clarify, I was a passenger on the locomotive, not that I stole it in a re-enactment of 1963’s Great Train Robbery.
Just as we disembarked from Leeds station, we were kindly advised over the tannoy that the toilets were at the front and back of the train, we were to report anything suspicious, we had the luxury of a refreshment trolley onboard and not to try to re-enact 1963’s Great Train Robbery, as there was no mail or money bags aboard.
As I watched her in my boredom, it appeared to she been reading the same page for ages. I’d come to the conclusion that she was either a slow reader, was struggling with the vocabulary on that page, or had fallen asleep.
I’ve ruled out that she’d died as she was making a strange low pitched growling noise. Unless, of course, she was suffering from terminal Low Pitched Growling Disease. I deemed this unlikely as I’d just made up the disease name, as we raced along the snow topped Pennine hills.
After leaving the Pennine town of Stalybridge, the woman two seats in front gave up on the page of no end. She was now making insipid snorting sounds with her closed book precariously placed on the table in front of her.
If pressed, I’d say that she was possibly now inflicted from Insipid Snoring Disease. However, as I’m not a doctor and that illness doesn’t exist either, I’m unlikely to be pressed and she won’t be victim to that.
I’m always cautious about giving unqualified medical diagnosis of friends and family ailments after my mum told me as a youngster “Never give unqualified medical diagnosis of friends and family ailments.”
It’s advice that’s set me in good stead, apart from the time I wrongly diagnosed a friend of having glaucoma, when in fact they were having a nut allergy seizure, causing them to nearly choked on their own tongue.
When ten minutes from Manchester Piccadilly station, Karen woke from her cat nap. She has just seen the woman two seats in front (who I will call Reginald, although it won’t be her real name) and was growing concerned at her apparent lack of movement while slumped back in her seat.
“Blimey do you think she is dead, Gary” my diminutive spouse enquired of her husband, who was only half listening due to to concentrating on writing this blog.
“I doubt it!” I responded, irritated at the interruption.
After half a minutes scrutinising Reginald, Karen piped up in a concerned voice “She can’t be dead or about to expire, as I can hear her making a strange low pitched growling noise. Unless she is suffering from terminal Low Pitched Growling Disease.”
“There’s no such thing!” I growled myself, at yet another distraction.
“How do you know?!” My wee Mrs questioned.
“Because it says so above in this blog!” I countered unconvincingly.
“Yes, but that’s just you talking bollocks!” my observant spouse pointed out.
As we continued our discussion about the existence of this controversial disease, Reginald’s husband shouted in a panicked fashion “Quick, is there a doctor on board?!”
Karen and I rushed over to help the apparently panic stricken man.
“Oh my god! She hasn’t got terminal Low Pitched Growling Disease has she?!” My caring wife exclaimed.
Reginald’s husband looked at us both with disdain and responded “Don’t be so bloody stupid, there’s no such thing! ……… She’s having another bout of Insipid Snoring Disease!”
With that Karen and I headed towards the exits to alight the train, that had just arrived at Manchester Piccadilly.
As our feet touched the platform I turned to my wee Birtley lassie and affirmed “See I told you there was no such bloody thing as terminal Low Pitched Growling Disease. You made a right show of us there!”