I AM cursed. Doomed to wander this lonely planet of ours without the single thing which keeps me relatively sane; caffeine.
Alright technically it's not wandering on foot, it's by rail. But no matter what train I travel on, my sheer presence ensures the immediate disappearance of the drinks trolley or a functioning hot beverage machine.
The last journey I undertook, is a prime example. Despite assurances from the over-friendly driver ("Hey there! Call me Nick - just checking out your ticket sweetlips!") on the first of three trains that the snacks cart will board at the next station and will serve hot drinks and a selection of 'lite bites', it never materialises.
On the second train there is a buffet car. Grabbing a seat near-by in eager anticipation, my caffeine dreams are shattered as some nasal voice overhead announces the hot drinks machine is out of order. Damned straight it is.
The third train is as empty as my expectations by then, three quarters of the way into a six hour journey and so far not even as much as a used teabag or empty sugar sachet to prove the existence of a hot drink has made it onto a train. My cynical side questions whether it might just be the Fates' way of suggesting I'm not made to travel and perhaps a life of agoraphobia and collecting Persian cats would be preferable. Just live my days out watching through windows, clearing up furballs and shopping via the web.
It isn't just my quest for caffeine which raises these questions. I book my tickets in advance like the adverts cheerily suggest; Coach D, seat 50A. I board the train, wander through coaches A, B, C and... E. I ask staff for directions to my seat (just incase it's a bit like Harry Potter and I should be jumping into some gap between platforms or something); with a reassuring smile they inform me that coach D won't be running today so I can sit anywhere... Anywhere except - as they clock my appearance and distinct lack of laptop, Blackberry or terribly important briefcase - first class.
I take my rightful place between a family of pale-pink sportswear-clad chavs and a woman struggling with a cello.
The stations are once more a reminder that I'm not a born traveller as I get stuck at virtually every ticket gate. The machine rejects everything I offer it, from valid tickets to old ones, Boots Advantage cards and petrol receipts. As a crowd of frustrated commuters gather behind me, bouncing off in other directions, confused that their very regular and rigid flow of people - like a line of ants following each other - has been disrupted, I am made to stand to one side.
The line of commuting army ants recovers and continues onwards as I explain to a very official-looking man with a walkie talkie how exactly I had escaped my little town and made it this far into the big wide world without being stopped before now.
Eventually I am allowed to get on my train and as it pulls away I observe two characters called Teko and Zarx have been very busy bees. For at least a mile or two from the station their names are spray-painted in graffiti on every wall, electricity box and even a forgotten wheelbarrow.
For just a fleeting moment my caffeine-starved brain seriously believes that next time I dare to join the railway elite, I should offer a sacrifice of coffee beans to the Train Gods, Teko and Zarx. After all, they have perfected the celestial skill of omnipresence; well, for a mile or two anyway.
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