Blown Away

To say it has been a bit windy lately would be an understatement. Yesterday Holland suddenly descended into complete chaos as a large storm swept across the country coursing more damage then a visit from Godzilla.

The streets turned into high powered wind tunnels populated by pedestrians struggling to keep on their feet. Anyone carrying an umbrella ran the risk of being blown into a near by canal or Belgium.

All trains came to a complete stand still by order of the traffic police due to leaves on the line. Normally this would not be too much of a problem but the trees were still attached at the time.

Roads turned into rivers, people in high rise buildings were getting sea sick, traffic took over an hour to go just one hundred meters and everyone was advised to stay indoors and off the roads.

My journey home that normally takes 20 minutes took four and half hours. I spent the evening listening to the high winds raging outside as parts of the house rattled and shook. I would not have been too surprised to wake up in the morning and discover that the house had landed in Oz after being swept up in the storm and crash landing, killing The Wicked Witch of the East in the process.

On the upside, all the wind turbines in Holland must have generated enough power to supply the rest of the world into the 25th century.

Keep on Jogging

New Years Resolutions are never easy to keep. Seven years ago I decided my goal would be to learn Chess. To date my only knowledge of the game is that trampling the opponent’s peaces with a toy dinosaur while making roaring noises is sadly not a winning move. My only successful New Years Resolution so far has been to stop smoking which was very easy because I had never started (so officially I still failed).

This year I decided my task would be to exercise more, eat healthier and get in shape. These goals were not easy either. Every short jog was an exhausting marathon which left me in desperate need of an oxygen mask and a stretcher to carry me home. Every snack left on a co-workers desk was a tempting offer, triggering a whisper of a voice in my mind telling me to blame its sudden disappearance on the greedy office mice.

There was several times where it seemed I would give in and fail. However, I have managed to be good and things have slowly gotten easier. I am able to resist the temptation of liberating co-workers snacks (the mice beat me to it anyway) and I no longer need a paramedic team on stand by in case I keel over during my evening run. My health is slowly improving and I can now out run every enthusiastic dog who think I am inviting them to take part in a friendly game of fetch the jogger (as they drag their owners behind them). Soon I might turn into Stuart Austin, The Six Million Euro Expat.

However, jogging has a darker side as well as a good side, its own Ying & Yang or Dr Jekyll and Mr. Hide.

On the one side a jogger is someone with a mission. As they run through the streets and fields in their trainers and tracksuit they are someone trying to improve their health through exorcise. You can see the determination and commitment on their faces as they speed by. These are qualities to admire.

However, all that changes the moment any jogger slows to a walk. Suddenly they no longer look like a jogger. Suddenly they look like a Chav. With out the act of running they simply look like someone walking around in a tracksuit as a fashion statement. The fact that they are still out of breath could be mistaken for the results of a quick get away from a shop security guard. At least that would explain some of the strange looks I have got in the street.

The Experiment

It is possible that I am the unwitting participant in some sort of social studies experiment. What the aim of this experiment is I can not say but I definitely know I drew the short straw.

Recently my flat mate started a new job in an office much like my own. We both do a lot of work with computers and both work similar office hours. However, there is one major difference between the two jobs, a difference he likes to keep on reminding me about. I work in an office mostly inhabited by men but my flat mate is now working in an office almost exclusively populated by women.

It’s as if we have both been placed in very different controlled test environments while someone in a white coat with a clip board and a mustache watches via hidden cameras and takes note on how we react to our different situations.

Step 1) Place computer nerd 1 (Subject Alpha) in an office populated with men.
Step 2) Place computer nerd 2 (Subject Beta) in an office populated with women.
Step 3) Observe and document results.

I keep on looking over my shoulder for Richard Hammond and the Braniac team or members of the Dharma Initiative.

Unfortunately for me programmers with long hair are not a substitute for female co-workers, the stubble completely destroys the illusion and the idea of them in a low cut top is truly the stuff of nightmares.

However, my flat mate has not won in every aspect. There are some negative aspects to being a man in an office full of women. There is no one in his office that he can debate with about who was the better captain, Picard or Kirk.

Hail to the King

When my parents rather cryptically started making plans for an evening out during my Christmas visit I was more then a little puzzled. No matter how many times I asked they refused to reveal their scheme. Even my sneaky attempts at tricking clues out of them met with little success. Should I be dressing up? Would we be getting there by car? Would we be eating when we get there?

After a while my questions were met with a look that said they knew what I was trying to do and it was not going to work. My child like detective work had failed and I was back to guessing with what little information I had. One phrase they kept on using was, "Keep an open mind," which is usually a scary request when you don't know what you are about to let yourself in for. I narrowed it down to a few possibilities one of which was that my parents had enough of me being single and had set up an arranged marriage.

As the evening got closer the mystery grew. I was half expecting my parents to lead me blind folded to some theatre or festival, maybe for some kind of experimental audience participation performance. Luckily there was no blind fold but I was still just as confused when they led me into the local curry house. As I sat there I could not work out why a meal at an Indian restaurant had merited so much mystery and deception. However, all my questions were finally answered when music started to play and there was suddenly a rather strange announcement that I thought I would never hear.

"Ladies and Gentlemen, Elvis is in the curry house."

And suddenly there he was; The King. He was standing between the tables with his quiff, dark sunglasses, leather jacket and microphone in hand. It's not the kind of sight you usually expect to see in an Indian Restaurant or many other places for that matter. Sightings of Elvis in England are usually limited to Fish & Chip shops and Tesco. However, he started to walk around the room and shake everyone's hand as he sang. There was no denying he was real (some people said he was an impersonator). Maybe the King had decided to swap cheese burgers for Chicken Korma.

He continued to perform a large selection of his greatest hits and occasionally got members of the audience to sing a few lines by suddenly thrusting the microphone towards them. Every time he started to walk in my direction I desperately tried to recall the lyrics of what ever he was singing in case I suddenly found the microphone (and everyone's attention) pointed towards me. Eventually I ended up singing a few lines of Tutti Frutti and The King commented on the Elvis G.I appearance of my spiky hair. That’s not a claim many people can make, The King knows my name and likes my hair.

By the second half of the performance he had changed into his familiar white jump suit with a leopard printed on the back. Waiters had to move the tables to let the steadily growing collection of drunken people dance as Elvis himself stood on one of the chairs and did his familiar hip movements. Passers by who peered inside might have thought they were witnessing a rather bizarre restaurant riot led by Elvis due to a lack of spiciness in the Red Hot Curry.

It was the last thing I would have guessed my parents had planned but it was a very entertaining night none the less. So the next time you are having a quite meal in a restaurant don’t forget to look out for Elvis. You never know, he might be there too. Long live The King.

Wet Paint

Welcome to the new look. Be careful where you sit, some of the paint is still drying. I would not touch that yet either if I was you, it's only held together by string.

I have been toying around with a new appearance for some time. Originally I was going to keep it under wraps until I moved to my own domain but I’ve decided to try it out a little early and see what people think. However, this is not the full version. There are a few things I am still keeping secret for now. I welcome any and all feedback, ideas or info about any errors.

In other news The 2007 Bloggies Awards have started accepting nominations and votes. If you notice any subliminal ‘Vote For’ me messages in the blog re-design you are just imagining things…. or maybe not.

Happy 2007

I hope you all have a great 2007. It’s time to start those New Year Resolutions. I’ll be back to Holland and my more regular posting pattern this Tuesday.

28th Birthday

Happy Birthday to me,
Happy Birthday to me,
Happy Birthday dear me,
Happy B…. Oh god, only two more years to 30.

Birthdays are strange. Everyone younger then you comments on how old you are but at the same time everyone older then you remark on your youth. As a result you are both young and old at the same time. Either way it means I am still too old to have Bobo the Clown at my birthday party. At least I can go out celebrating by having a few drinks with my friends and making a clown of myself.

Merry Christmas

I’ve managed to resist the urge to feel, shake, prod, probe and x-ray the presents under the tree so far but there is not much longer to wait now.

I hope you all have a great Christmas and New Year. Don't forget to be good for Santa.

Flying

This weekend I flew back to England to spend Christmas with my family. It’s a trip I’ve made quite a lot in the last few years. The flight between the two countries is so short that I suspect the airplane takes a run and jump towards England rather then actually flying through the sky.

This might also explain why the music from Back to the Future always pops into my head as the plane speeds down the run way like Marty McFly in the time traveling Delorean. However, I am fairly sure that a plane has to be going faster then 88mph to take off and there is little danger of it traveling through time when it does so. If it did a wide range of new holiday options would suddenly become available.

I have only experience bad turbulence once in all the years I have been flying (a fact that I am not too upset about). It was during a flight in the winter. The plane was constantly shaking and dropping a few meters. Every time it happened everything within the plane seemed to stay suspended in the air for a second before realizing they too should be affected by gravity (I believe this is called the Wily E. Coyote theory of course and affect).

A lot of people were starting to get worried, including myself. There were cries of panic, a near by child threw up; all that was missing was Scotty from Star Trek screaming, “She canna’ take much more captain!”

Things were looking very bad. Then I noticed something that almost made me laugh. At the front of the plane there was a group of English tourists returning from a weekend in Amsterdam. Every time the plane dropped in one of its stomach churning losses of control they threw their arms into the air and cheered as if they were riding a roller coaster. Suddenly the situation was no longer scary and a short while later we landed safely.

If comedy can make a situation like that seem alright then maybe airlines should think about having a trained comedian onboard and replacing the oxygen masks with Helium.

Hang Over

Today I am very very hung over. Last night was the office Christmas party and I am now suffering for my abuse of the free bar and my bright idea that I should order as many drinks as I could carry (at least three) on each visit.

However, not everything about a hang over is bad. Once you get past the pounding headache and the ill stomach there are some benefits to having a hang over.

I don’t have to be intelligent, fast or witty today. I can be as slow and dim witted as I want. I don’t have to expect anything from myself so I can freely walk around in a daze. This also means every achievement, no matter how small becomes an epic accomplishment. Even the act of rolling out of bed this morning takes on the same level of achievement as climbing Mount Everest. Being able to write this post with a hang over may even be equivalent to the greatest accomplishment of non-hung over man kind.

I'm going to crawl under my desk and hide now until the hurty pain goes away.

What Not to do in a Power Cut

Sometimes I think I have an unhealthy dependency on Technology. It could almost be called an addiction. It makes me wonder how I would survive if I found myself trapped on a deserted island with out working electronics.

I realized the level of my dependency on technology a few days ago when a power cut suddenly plunged everything into darkness while my flat mate and myself were watching TV. It did not take us long to work out that the power would be out for a while and we would have to make preparations.

Our first challenge was to find illumination. After lighting a few candles this problem was easily solved and at the same time gave the room a Charles Dickens like atmosphere.

The second challenge was to save the frozen food. We took the easy option and didn’t.

Challenge three was to find non-technology based entertainment to keep our selves amused until the power came back on. This was a problem for us.

However, we were in luck. The battery in my laptop still had power so we could use it to watch a DVD. I turned it on and we started the lengthy debate about which movie to watch. Selecting a film is not a straight forward choice. There are several considerations that have to be made. Do we want a mindless movie with scantily clad ladies and explosions? Do we want a movie that demands our attention with a plot that has to be followed? Is the porn on my laptop hidden well enough? Can I trick my flat mate into watching Ghostbusters for the millionth time? We spent sometime pondering these issues. In fact we spent so much time thinking about it that just as I was putting the DVD of choice into the laptop the battery suddenly died and we were right back where we had started. Turning it on at the start didn’t seem like such a bright idea any more.

However, there was another option and a few moments later we were crowded around my PSP (Play Station Portable) watching Serenity (I had suggested Ghostbusters) on its tiny 4.3inch screen. It was a sad act of desperation. We must have looked like a group of lost arctic explorers desperately clinging onto their last source of heat. A few scenes into the movie we both decided we need to get out more.

I think I know what I would be doing on that deserted island now. As everyone else tries to builds shelters, find food and treat the injured from the plane crash I would be working on a way to power my PSP with coconuts and debating with the islands monkeys what movie to watch.

Jogging

Red faced, gasping for breath and trying not to collapse after finally catching up with my flat mate during my first evening jog in a long time I was barely able to wheeze out the words:

“Dam… I can’t… even keep up… with a thirty-three… year old smoker… with a bad… back.”

Yes, I have decided it is time to get back in shape again. It might take a little while but it seemed like a good idea to start the New Years resolution early.

If you see a red faced ginger Englishman in a jogging outfit face down on a Dutch street as he tries to recover from lung collapse you will know it is me. Wish me luck.... then call an ambulance.

Meme: Ten Things I Will Never Do

I’ve tagged by Alan from Random Burblings to inform every one of 10 things I will 'never' do in my life time.

1) Enjoy an Adam Sandler Movie:
I have never found Adam Sandler funny and I never will. I am still scarred from the time I was forced to watch ‘Little Nicky.’ That movie stole time from my life that I want back. I look forward to the day when audiences can sue the makers of bad movies. I've got a long list ready.

2) Be a morning person:
I can never wake up in the mornings and I don’t like coffee. I just stumble around for a while like a zombie in search of the shower and pass out again on the train to work.

3) Think Paris Hilton is a talented person and a good role model for the youth of today:
I’m not even going to start on this subject. I’ll only get angry and burn down every store stocking copies of her album.

4) Remember my college summer ball:
Drinking student punch at a pre-ball party is not a good idea. They make it very strong. My only memory of the actual event is waking up in a hallway in the recovery position after my friends had put me there. I was up and about again in time for the last song.

5) Understand how to use a Mac:
I’ve tried. I really have but I can not work them out. PCs might not be perfect but neither are Macs. I also don’t like the way a Mac is more like a fashion statement then a computer or Apples patronizing and inaccurate representation of PC users. Can’t we all just get along? If a Mac user ever tries laughing at me because my PC is not cool I just make them cry by asking when they will be getting the latest games release.

6) Be able to dance with out having a few drinks first :
It’s not easy getting the ‘sober and embarrassed vs. drunk and stupid’ balance right but when it is achieved I can dance the night away with out feeling shy or falling down.

7) Approach a lists like this seriously:
It’s just not in my nature.

8) Work in food retail again:
For a lot of my college life I worked part time in Iceland (the frozen foods store and not the country). I hated every second of it.

If you do not believe the old truth that the worst thing about working in retail is the customers (followed quickly by the employer) then I have a story to tell you. An old man once approached me and asked where he could find our ice-cream. It was a rule that we had to show customers to the location of something rather then simply point out the direction. As I led the way I suddenly felt his hand brush across my ass. It was worrying but it seemed like it could have been an accident coursed by walking too close, an embarrassing but innocent mistake. Then it happened a second time and there was definite feeling. I started walking a lot fast in a panic, pointed out the ice-cream and kept on going. My pace got even quicker when I heard him ask if I would reach into the freezer and get him an ice-cream from the bottom. To hell with customer satisfaction.

9) Be able to think of a number 9 in the list of 10 things I will never do:
I’m drawing a blank… um… I’ll never have an army of robot zombie mice. There you go.

10) Spell dyslexic with out the aid of a spell checker:
Dyslexix, dyslxix, deslxic….. bugger.

(Tag: BlondButBright, Bonestorm, ChickyBabe and VallyP but only if you want to)

Boom Chicago

As someone who has worked in the theater industry I am used to running around unseen in the shadows backstage while actors perform before their public. However, I am not accustom to actually standing on stage in the presents of an entire audience who are waiting for me to say something funny, only equipped with a microphone to defend myself if things turn ugly.

I’ve been to the Boom Chicago Comedy Theatre in Amsterdam a few times but my first visit will always be the most memorable for me because it was when I found myself in the above situation. The show is a mix of improvisation and sketches and it was during one of the improvised scenes that I was called up on stage.

I was enjoying the performance with a friend (who was visiting from England). At first we didn’t really know what to think when one of the comedians asked the entire audience to stand and were only allowed to sit down again as he said things such as, “sit down if you have a tattoo,” or “sit down if you’ve had sex in the last 24 hours.”

Since I didn’t have a tattoo or a love life I remained standing. In fact I remained standing for quite a while as other people sat down. When there were only four of us left I realized two things: (1) I need a tattoo and/or a girlfriend and (2) something embarrassing was potentially about to happen.

It was not long before I found out because I was the last man standing and had to go on stage to help with the next improvised sketch. I was given the simple task of coming up with the title for a song but my mind went blank with embarrassment whenever the microphone was pointed towards me as if it was some kind of Kryptonite. Inspiration finally came to the rescue in the form of the logo on the T-shirt I was wearing but at the cost of turning me into a walking nerd stereotype in one simple sentence. “Atari is cool.”

I'm still not sure why I said it but when the title was rejected for being too short (artistic differences) I came up with a new suggestion and the smash hit, “Atari is really cool,” was born.

I thought I was off the hook as the comedian started to sing this moving tale of 80’s computer games but every few lines the song would suddenly stop and I had to provide the next line. The ballad told the epic tale of me on a heroic five hour Atari playing marathon, ignoring anything that stood in my way, end of level bosses, sore thumbs and a nagging girlfriend (who could have prevented me having to go on stage if she was not fictional). Suddenly I was a god amongst geeks and I had groupies.

Any heckling was quickly silenced with a shout of, “Shut up! This is Stuart and Stuart ROCKS!” from the singing comedian. There were chants of, “Stuart Rocks,” during the rest of the show (which led to other sketches about me).

A few weeks later I took my parents to see the show. When it came to the same part of the performance I was quickly off the hook when we were told to, “sit down if you have ever been on stage.” However, my mother was still standing. She remained standing for quite a while. In fact she was still standing when it was down to six people. At this point I started to worry but I was able to breathe a sigh of relief when she finally sat down (third to last). I was relieved for two reasons: (1) I did not have to be embarrassed while watching my Mother on stage and (2) she had sat down before the, “have you had sex in the last 24 hours,” question and no child should know that much about their parent’s sex life.

Cooking Disasters

I lived with my parents until I moved to Holland. This made moving out a double shock. Not only was I going out into the world by myself for the first time but I was also doing it in a completely different country. I had to learn to cook for myself (or choose from less appealing options such as McDonalds or starving) but at the time I could hardly even boil an egg.

My early cooking attempts met with varying levels of success, including giving myself food poisoning from under cooking chicken. Since then my need for a stomach pump has reduced as my kitchen skills have improved. However there is one simple food item that I have not yet been able to master. Many of my attempts have met with bitter failure both figuratively and literally. For some unknown reason I am unable to cook rice properly. The mysteries of this simple ingredient continue to elude me and something always goes wrong.

During my first attempt I discovered that rice expands as it boils. Unfortunately this revelation came when it was too late to do anything about the oozing volcano of rice that was slowly pouring out over the kitchen.

One of my more recent attempts was awarded the title of worst tasting rice ever. At the time this statement seemed like an unfair over reaction. How bad can rice possibly taste? When I sampled it for myself I found nothing wrong. In fact it was light, fluffy and all the other things that rice should be. At least it was for the first few seconds before the hidden after taste kicked in. Suddenly it tasted as if a sickly rat with bad breath had decided to end its life by jumping into the boiling pot of rice when I had not been looking. Luckily it was only because I had accidentally let all the water boil away.

Rice is my kitchen nemesis and the source of much amusement for my friends (as long as they don’t have to eat it). The sound of rice boiling in water might as well be the sound of mocking laughter.

However, there can only be so many ways to get rice wrong. One day I will get it right even if I have to burn the kitchen down doing so. Then I’ll eventually be able to move onto the next challenge, boiling an egg.

Considering

Mum: "Have you got any plans for the 19th? Your Dad is trying to arrange something."

Me: "No, nothing at the moment. Why? What is he organizing?"

Mum: "I’m sworn to secrecy but we’re going to book tickets and it should give you another funny story for your blog."

Me: "Considering that most of my funny blog entries involve me getting trapped in lifts, breaking bones or some other kind of physical injury, should I worry about what you have planned?"

Sinterklaas and Zwarte Pieten

Imagine that you have been living in Holland for half a year. You are still unfamiliar with most of the countries customs and quarks. You are walking down the local high street one chilly but pleasant afternoon in late November. It is an ordinary day like any other. Suddenly you hear some kind of commotion up ahead. Imagine your surprise when you suddenly see coming into view a parade of men and women dressed in what looks like Renaissance jester out fits. You would find it a little strange wouldn't you. However, my description does not end their. Visualize that they are all white but have covered their faces in black shoe polish, painted their lips bright red and donned large fake afros upon their heads. If you do not find that extremely strange then you might be perplexed by the group of children cheering and singing as they pass.

If you can imagine this scene then you might understand my introduction to the Dutch custom of Sinterklaas. This is exactly how I experienced it for the first time. I did not know it but I had just witnessed a parade of Zwarte Pieten (Black Piets). At first I thought I had found myself in the middle of an Al Jolson appreciation ceremony or something much more sinister.

The Zwarte Pieten are the helpers of Sinterklaas who arrived in Holland again this weekend and should not be mistaken for Santa Claus. As every Dutch person will inform you they might both be old men with white beards who dress in red and give out presents to good children but they are nothing alike.

To avoid confusion I have put together a quick reference of the key differences:

1) Santa Claus delivers presents on December 24th but Sinterklass arrives in Holland during November, does some sight seeing, delivers presents on the 5th of December and returns home in time to enjoy a quiet Christmas.

2) Santa Claus rides on a sledge pulled by 12 over worked reindeer but Sinterklaas rides a white horse and saves money on animal feed.

3) Santa Claus comes from the North Pole but Sinterklaas comes from Spain (by boat) and saves money on his yearly heating bill.

4) Santa Claus puts presents for children under a Christmas tree but Sinterklaas puts presents in children’s shoes regardless if they are smelly.

5) Santa Claus gives a lump of coal to children who have been naughty so that they might learn from their mistakes. Sinterklass on the other hand has a zero tolerance policy and orders Zwarte Pieten to throw naughty children into a sack and drags them back to Spain while beating them with twigs.

6) Santa Claus has an elf equal opportunities program which has helped keep the fairytale creature unemployment rate down. However, Sinterklaas employs a 1920s racist stereotype which most other countries have not dared to mention since the 50s apart from in movies about racism (but it's not intended to be offensive).

Undercover Englishman

After five years of living in Holland I have come to a conclusion that has not been easy to accept. I have been trying to ignore this revelation for some time but I must finally accept it. I would be a terrible spy. The child in me has taken this as a heavy blow. During my day to day life in Holland I regularly find myself in situations that would result in my cover being blown if I was an undercover spy.

It can happen in a supermarket queue, on a train platform or any other place where random people gather together in close proximity. It might begin with an observation about the weather, a comment about something amusing or any random topic that can spark a conversation between strangers. All that matters is as soon as someone says something to me in Dutch that I do not understand I only have a moment to decide; Apologize and tell them I don’t understand or react as if I did understand (and hide my identity as an Englishman).

Being honest usually results in a look of sympathy with out the comment being repeated in English so I often try to hide my lack of linguistic skills with a smile and a nod. It’s a simple plan designed to avoid the awkward moment but it usually back fires.

The fake response is sometimes so convincing that it starts an actual conversation. Although it is sometimes possible to continue this sham for a short while ‘something’ usually happens that brings the whole charade crashing down to the ground.

Even if it’s impossible to understand what they are saying the rising inflexion at the end of their sentence is unmistakable. They just asked a question, a question that demands an answer, a question that can’t be answer with frantic nodding and smiling unless I want to appear very simple and slightly scary.

If I was living in a World War 2 Spy movie (in Germany) it would probably not be long before I was dragged away to a basement to spend sometime in the company of a man who has an unhealthy interest in dentistry. However, my Dutch language skills would not be a complete loss. If my interrogator asked if I ‘had a bonus card,’ or ‘wanted mayonnaise on my fries,’ as he was pulling teeth I would be able to reply convincingly and still hide my true identity as an Englishman.

Luckily this extreme example has not happened yet but my failed attempt at blending in does mean I course myself much more embarrassment then I would have. This is why I would be a terrible spy but maybe it also means the Dutch would make great interrogators.

Nieuw Nieuw Straat

English co-worker: "The bar is on new new street? There is actually a street called new new street? Cool."

American co-worker commenting to Dutch co-worker: "New New Street? Floris your people are dumb."

English co-worker: "And that's coming from an American."

Train Ticket Criminal

I am a criminal. I have broken the rules of our society and paid the price. People will judge me for the rest of my life. As I walk down the street I already feel their disapproving eyes on me and I hear their hushed whispers to each other.

“Look… there goes the guy who forgot to buy a new train ticket.”

My crime is forgetfulness. Anyone who travels on the train with a monthly pass knows it is all too easy to forget it needs renewing during the early morning half asleep walk to the train station.

I only realized my mistake when I heard the familiar call, “Kaartjes Alsjeblieft,” from the train conductor who had entered the carriage to check everyone’s tickets.

I am an honest person. I didn’t try to pass my ticket off as being in date. When she approached me I apologetically explained my mistake and felt rather stupid. From the look on her face that followed I instantly knew I was in trouble. She was looking at me like she had just caught a hardened criminal stealing charity money from a children’s hospital. Apparently I had also taken their teddy bears just to be extra mean and make them cry.

“You don’t have to tell me if you do not wish to but why did you not buy a ticket?” She asked me with a stern face. It didn’t have the same ring as “you have the right to remain silent” but she said it as if trying to achieve the same level of seriousness and authority. Obviously no one messed with the train service when she was on patrol.

Over the course of the ‘telling off’ she asked me the same question several times. It was as if she was looking for a hole in my story, waiting for me to make one slip that would bring my whole web of lies (as she believed) crashing to the ground.

“I didn’t realize it had run out at the start of the week.” I told her truthfully. “I forgot to…”

“The start of the week?” She interrupted through clenched teeth. “You’ve been traveling with out a ticket for more then one day?”

She made a move that suggested she would have reached for a can of mace if she had one. From the way she talked I was half expecting to end up face down on the floor as she forcefully handcuffed my hands behind my back.

Suddenly the train carriage began to feel like a police interrogation room. I thought about asking for a lawyer or turn snitch and give up the names of other people with out tickets. There was no way I was becoming someone’s bitch in the slammer. Luckily I only had to pay a fine and I could put the plans for my prison break on hold.

I can live with the fact that I had to pay a fine for forgetting my ticket (even though I would have rather kept my money obviously); it might help me to remember next time. However I did not like the smug way the train conductor acted during the whole event. I was obviously a liar and a thief in her eyes. I got the impression she had failed the police force entrance exam and was taking it out on me.

The moral of the story: Never equip train conductors with firearms. Innocent people will die if they have had a bad day.