Hi there. Welcome to
the first entry into this, my august almanac of train stations. Time
flies by when you're the driver of a train, eh? All aboard the
fucking express please thank you; first stop is the closest stop to
my house, Dorridge station of County Warwick. It's pretty cool I guess, not really
getting the point of the almanac though, it's meant to be about
travelling to exotic climes on Romantic voyages of discovery and fun,
but oh well, I gotta get the basics out the way and its a nice place
to start with you know? Anyway here's a photo:
Pretty pretty yeah?
Also hopefully the photographs will be a running gag in this novel
since photography is cool, and proves I've been there too. Ooh look
at that willow behind the bridge. Very nice yes.
Dorridge station
consists of three platforms: 1, 2 and 3. Its got a ticket office,
free toilets and even a bike rack. The ticket office is well known in
the area for never being open, even though the ticket master is
clearly sitting there behind the curtain. If you ask him to give you
a ticket his typical response will be: “Sorry sir we're closed.
Please use the ticket machine located on platform 1.”
At which point you sigh
a sigh of relief that you can escape this awkward situation and move
on; thank god for technology am I right? The ultimate saviour of the
anti-socialite. But alas. The machine's fucking out of order. It
literally always is. I'm not sure they are even trying to fix it. And
so you gotta troop back to the station master and tell him what he so
obviously already knows. Or not. You could just get on the damn
train. They never check the tickets out here in the sticks anyway.
Unless you're off to Moor Street; then just fuck you I guess.
Basically the ticket machine doesn't work and who cares.
Hey look at that fucker
in the photo behind the lamp post. He makes me laugh every time I
look at him, He's either an under-age nonce on his way to his
grandma's or a the village clown out for a jog. I don't know why,
he's just funny. Also I just noticed there's a grit box there on the
left. Why? There isn't another grit box for a dozen miles in any
direction. Why on earth does the station need one? Talk about state
oversight. Also tut tut, looks like there outta Metros. Sad!
Okay I'm back, I really
needed a smoke and a hobnob.
The architecture is
very nice. Real classic 19X0's stuff there. If I remember right the
bridge was restored a couple years back and they never bothered to
remove the scaffolding. If you look closely you can see it poking out
over the hand rail. But seriously platform 2 has a really nice array
of plant pots along the central divide. I'm upset I didn't get a good
photo of them. My grandmother actually waters them as part of her
duties in the village council. It's one of their responsibilities
along with administering the mob judicial system and organising any
current raiding operations on neighbouring parishes. Oh look another
photo:
This one's taken from
astride the bridge looking South towards where I was standing before.
This one's got my signature shitty focus since I was too awkward to
stand there and adjust the lens because an important looking man in a
suit was coming up the stairs hurriedly and I'd hate to be seen to be
a loitering youth. Hey look its the bike rack. Don't you see? Its
obviously that collection of 12 blurred pixels in the centre of the
image, wait that might be the car park. Also it kinda looks like it
was raining from this photo. It wasn't.
Now under the administration of the Arch-Earl of Warwick and situated in the centre
of the great forest of Arden (deceased), Dorridge station has a rich
and long history of stationing many a train. I would even name it one
of the seven wonders of the Dorridge-Knowle county parish; for the
sole reason that I can't for the life of me understand how it managed to stay open through the great rail purge; divine protection or maybe consorted oversight? I'd recommend to all those who wish to
leave or depart from Dorridge. See you next time for another super
exciting entry into the almanac: this time the Gare Saint-Lazare of
Paris. Wait no I meant Derby.
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