Oxford Station - 27 October 2020 No4

Today was meant to be so different.  I was meant to be waking up to the sights and smells of a new home on the Falkland Islands.  Instead I’m feeling dirty and sweaty on a train home to Cheshire lugging more than 60kgs of luggage around.  Such are the effects of an aborted flight to the Falklands.

Oxford station

I spent last night in Gateway House at Brize Norton.  If I said the conditions were spartan I’d be exaggerating.  At least they were there and clean, even if my barracks style room would probably be described as unfit in a prison inspection.  It is many, many years since I’ve seen a floor of bedrooms sharing three toilets and two showers - and one of them was unserviceable.  As my taxi driver described it this morning - “They had an earthquake last year and it did £6m in improvements!”  

Ironically whilst I’m sure the taxi-driver was joking - Oxfordshire is geologically stable afterall- there was evidence that an inner pane of double glazing had shattered at the end of my corridor.  Whilst much of the glass had been cleared away there were jagged pieces around the frame and warning signs about broken glass.  Even without my background as a health and safety lawyer anyone could recognise this as an egregious breach of health and safety law - especially in a dormitory setting.  If ever you need evidence about the inefficiency of the public sector and PFI that was plainly one.  The contracted staff also gave me plenty of evidence in a few short contacts that they had little or no interest in ‘customer experience’ let alone my customer experience.  I’m sure if you are in the military there are days when Gateway House would seem like luxury especially in contrast to roughing it a slit trench.  However for this “soft-civvy” this was as close to privation as I will tolerate as a one-off.

So home to Frodsham for a shower, change of clothes and a wait and see as to when my adventure will re-start.

It was interesting to see who knew what and when about my abortive trip.  One of my sisters-in-law was tracking my progress south, and then north again via the Brize Norton facebook page.  Others in my family - who really ought to be better - “don’t do facebook!”  My new employers were tracking and made contact with me once back at Brize offering to sort out everything for me.   However old habits die hard.  I prefer the certainty of making my own arrangements to get home.  Maybe I need to embrace the “learned helplessness” that I see in too many around me and too many that lean on me unreasonably to sort things out for them?

The unexpected sight of Wolverhampton Station