The train was chanting my name. ‘Choochoochoo I’m gonna get you’. The treat of having to endure two hours on the train each day was all too real. Today was the day my fate was decided for the next month. Would my wheeltrimless, bumped and bruised old Saxo pass its MOT? It just had to. I have to trawl up the monotonous M1 daily, which is a bore in its self but can you imagine the commute from Nottingham to Meadowhall on the train? I can picture it now. I’d be stood waiting for the engine to chug into Langley Mill station which is a sorry excuse for a station. I’d call it more a platform with an out of date information board which has ‘Dave woz ‘ere 9t8’ and ‘chelsea luvz Waggy 4eve IDST’ scrawled across it in permanent black marker. In the pitch black at 6am on my own or with a shady looking character who does nothing but grunt. I’d stand near the help point which probably connects you to a guy in a warm office somewhere too far away to get to you in time if you really were in trouble. Wrapped up to the eyeballs in hat scarf and gloves trying to fend off the bitter winter winds. Id rather not. Id prefer to sit in traffic dodging the 50 mph average speed cameras any day.
Thankfully the car passed. With only a few light bulbs needed changing. Granted I did know about these lights but I’m not that great with changing a lightbulb in the house let alone in the car (thats what boyfriends and Dads are for). I’ll leave it the experts. So, a chat with the mechanics about travel and a good strong cup of tea later, I walked out of the garage £70 worse off but the proud owner of a new Mot Certificate. Phew. No blustery mornings on the platform for me, no delayed trains because of ‘leaves on the line’. Just the M1 again.