Drive he said

When ex-premier Jim Callaghan retired from office he was asked what he would miss the most and he said a driver. It’s truly one of life’s great luxuries to be collected and delivered door to door avoiding all the stress of driving and other means of transport. A luxury has become a necessity for those of us who use Southern Fail. Wednesaday and Thursday were days of strike just as Southern Snail had restored their timetable. It’s an odd strike as Govia, who operate the franchises, are paid a management fee by the government who pocket the income. RMI is a a small union but the larger railway one ASLEF do not seem involved. At the heart of the dispute is that the Government want to cut costs to make the railways more efficient and to do this drivers can operate the doors but RMI say there are safety issues although the reality is that they are protecting  the guards’ jobs. The loser in all of this is the passenger. Gone are the days of the Brighton Belle when Lawrence Olivier ate his kippers and Ted Dexter had his own marmalade pot in the first class carriage. There are no benefits whatsoever in the first class department, just a specific area normally invaded in East Croydon.

So some time ago I engaged a local driver Alf to collect and deliver. The driver/passenger relationship is an interesting one. Albert Speer’s political career began by driving prominent Nazis around. Because you spend quite sometime together you tend to chat, even confide. Our journey yesterday followed a similar pattern. Running late, I texted Alf that the pick up was now 1.30. Alf always is there one hour before but I thought this was the considerate thing to do. We duly set off from central London and Alf decided at the last moment not to go via Hammersmith but the longer (hoppefully less traffic-ridden) route of Twickenham. Once I argued now I leave the planning to him. By the time we are out of London on the M3 we lighten up. As often as not I nod off. When I awake we are in the Downs on the M23. Alf enjoys a drink and has a huge American fridge stocked with beers, lagers, gin and wine. Conversation turns to our first drink of the day. Alf is too professional a driver to imbibe any alcohol on duty but relishes  his first drink of the day. We discuss what this might be. He will have a couple of Peronis. I will have a Leffe, my beer of choice. We both enjoy a gin. There are many fine artisan gins but mine will be a Hendricks in a pint mug with loads of ice and cucumber with a Fevertree tonic (my best perfroming share) before wine for dinner. As he turns off the A27 to the final mile of my journey past the Amex and over the race course with the Downs on both sides we have another familiar conversation, namely how much we prefer Sussex to London. We now see the sea. As a kid my dad would drive us to Brighton regularly for trips. We would follow the veteran car run in November. There was always a hurrah from my brother and I when we see the sea for the first time. Five day trippers drowned on Camber Sands so it is no friend but here is something seductive about the waves and water. Brighton is unique as a city for the proximity of gorgeous countryside to the sea hence its attraction over the centuries to royalty, day tripper and mods and rockers.

I’m on my balcony to admire the sea with a cold Leffe followed by another. I move to gin and it’s hot enough to have a barbeque. Alf is having one too and reckons this might be our last opportunity. I have a glass of Gewurtztraminer followed by a South African red. Alf texts me to say he is on his fifth Stella and what a fine life it is. Sometimes the simple pleasures of life are the best of all.