80. “Self” “Service” to Barking

 (Sydney to London, Essex and Derbyshire - October, 2025)

Tuesday: Sydney Airport: QANTAS Check in - High Noon.

It took three attempts to find a working self-serve kiosk which could spit out a boarding pass and bag tag before lugging the checked bag to the do-it-yourself weigh-register-and-swallow-baggage-into-the-terminal-underworld-conveyor-belt machine.

The computer recognised my docs, scanned and weighed the bag (20.5kg if you must know) before it stalled, condescendingly asking me if I needed more time (for???) while it refused to play any more. The system then froze and took me back to the “WELCOME” screen to re-enter and re-weigh, three more times, without a happy ending.

So I wandered off to find a helpful QANTAS person lurking within the forest of self-serve kiosks. One of two staff was available. Businesslike, she led me back to the baggage maw machine and was twice treated with similar technological disregard (the second time after she had counselled me and demonstrated the manipulation of the stuck-on bag tag to be better read by machine… but to no avail: my baggage was doggedly going nowhere fast).

A passing young Sikh fellow-passenger pointed out a large stack of plastic grey tray thingies (usually used to cradle soft baggage through machines) and suggested putting one of them OVER my bag. He demonstrated. It worked. I thanked him. I told him that QANTAS didn’t pay him enough. The real QANTAS rep looked displeased with us both. DEPARTURES through the cattle gates beckoned.

Tuesday: 2.45pm.

It’s a rare moment: First Class and Business passengers are being made to Stand And Wait In Public At The Boarding Gate. Mere Economy mortals are sitting more or less comfortably as the Executive Loungers have been sent down to board but are being held back as a “catering vehicle has not yet disengaged from the airliner…” (This is an excuse worthy of BBC British Rail jokes). Once “disengagement” has been achieved, we are all boarded snappily.

I booked an extra legroom seat: lovely to stretch out and relieve the neuropathy… Not quite so lovely was finding the damaged armrest and fold-out telescreen patched up oh-so-professionally with a lug of thick, black gaffer tape. I’m more used to this kind of “maintenance” on dodgy airlines such as Indonesia’s Merpati (gaffer tape holding wall panels up while baggage was stacked down the aisles in the 1980’s) or Iberia Airlines (Band Aids plastering non-working screens to seat backs and “you-can-sit-in-the-middle-back-row-if-you-want-the-entertainment”, only to find that the post-evening-meal-service cabin staff plonked there doing their knitting). But I digress.

The QANTAS screen mechanism tended to droop somewhat if a supporting knee needed a stretch, and the touch screen had a playful 3 to 5 second delay and occasional oppositional tendencies. Having taught high school students, I am well versed in managing passive aggression, so I focused on watching the “boxed set” Series 3 of ‘The White Lotus’ more-or-less undistracted till sleep set in somewhere north west of Singapore…..

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THURSDAY - Essex:

Driving with my old friend Cathy through the streets of Ingatestone and Cheltenham was a bit of a street-flag experience: many small Union Jack flags on every pole in a street are remnants of VE Day street party celebrations. More aggressive clusters of red and white Cross of St George flags or Very Large Union Jacks with various slogans in front yards tend to be identifying Reform UK supporters…

A bit of a coffee and an excellent market Thai food experience was interrupted by Brentwood-Kelvedon Hatch: the “Secret Bunker” burrowed down 4 levels under an inconspicuous woodlands hill as, to quote Cathy: “a nuclear shelter for the Toffs”. The entry steps are encouragingly decorated by a few scattered missiles. The “Bikini States of Security” are on large warning signs to jolly you along as you enter a nondescript brick hut to confront the dank bleakness of more-than-half-century-old concrete from the height of the Cold War. The corridors are so long that bicycles were provided for potential inmates… the place is vast and a small taste is enough.

“IT’S AS THO THE OCCUPANTS HAVE JUST WALKED OUT LAST WEEK. THE ATMOSPHERE (is) OF BEING THE LAST SURVIVOR AFTER THE ATOMIC WAR”…

Well, up to a point, Lord Godber… as, out in the fresh air, the birds are singing, the greenery is lush; the signs point out the exit cafe with lovely souvenirs past the half-full car park and through a locked wire gate.

… And that is if you can even find the site. We circumnavigated a squat communications tower plonked among the trees in vain efforts to get past the official looking NO ENTRY signs (were they just there for historical  effect???). Eventually a bus stop sign: “Secret Bunker” suggested we were standing at the dirt road entry to the right place.

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Shenfield - 4.10pm:

For my sins, the return to Liverpool St was on the Ango-European School train. I was herded with a swarm of sweaty adolescents over the Ingatestone footbridge (“Beware, oncoming fast train,” says the stout teacher on platform duty).

 On this noisy run back to London I was surrounded by a lot of strange Essex accents and adolescent slang. “Youuuuure sewwwww fockin’ stewwwwpid… Thet’s sewwww county, sewwwwwwwwww COunty!!!!!!!”….. etc etc…

FRIDAY 9.20am:

The ‘easy travel’ day, from London to Matlock became anything but, with initial busted bag stitching and fabric tears and fast shopping for a bag belt at a usurious souvenir outlet.

There are TWO different Circle Line platforms under the massive Paddington station: one to the south (southbound around the full Circle) and another, about a kilometer’s walk, around and upstairs then downstairs to the northeast, for eastbound trains. It’s a bit of a trudge if you have gone to the wrong one.

Quick directions boarding the train at the correct Circle Line station from a ‘helpful’ exiting “suit” sent me in the wrong direction for St Pancras, and had me immediately informed on boarding the train that it was the wrong train by a helpful school girl, while the doors slammed shut behind me, minding the gap.

Dragging self and bag out at Royal Oak station to reverse, I was ably assisted by a sporty lady in her 30’s who, sprinting on tip-toe for 300 metres along the platform in stilettos (worthy of Ru Paul); long blonde hair sweeping behind her, before fast-tip-toeing back after checking a map, said “Take this one towards Barking, it’ll get you where you need to go!” as an arriving train rumbled to a halt.

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St Pancras station, LMR platforms - 10.20am:

To locate your platform in Kings Cross/St Pancras, first try to remember which of the  half dozen different rail companies in this vast station is running your particular service. LMS (purple indicator) is upstairs next to Eurostar, but no-where near as fine.

The growing crowd was held back at the LMS barriers, only being let through when their ticketed train arrived and the train crew had “changed ends”. Following an increasingly tetchy half hour wait, the two expresses to Sheffield (one yet to arrive when the 11am train was already due to depart) were “combined” onto the late 11am train. (Yes: TWO trainloads of mostly reserved seat passengers were bundled onto one train, all looking for their particular allocated seats). It was HILarious as those of us with a reserved seat ticket (on either train) attempted to grab our doubly-booked seats before someone else with the same seat number could get to it first.

An American woman sitting next to me, recently arrived on a flight from St Louis, MO, was agog at British “organisation” on her jetlagged first day in the country. I clung to my available “window”, (actually a blank wall) seat all the way to Derby.

On the previous night, I’d sat in the “Gods” for a brilliantly ,starkly energetic production of “Cabaret”, seated next to another woman from St Louis, a manager of vaccine trials for a US pharmacy company. She described this as “interesting” under Trump and found the themes of the show somewhat uncomfortable. No photos were allowed: phone cameras were blocked by elegant black and gold “KIT KAT CLUB” stickers in the entry queue to the theatre basement.

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Derby station - High Noon:

The packed train from London arrived late, missing the hourly connection towards Matlock. Time for an oat-milk coffee? I ordered a cap with some not-bad sandwiches. The barista was ready: poised, standing at the machine. Unfortunately the officious attendant had other ideas. No coffee was to be made until I used the allergy QR code, identified the drink I had ordered (a “cappuccino”) and its ingredients (“ground coffee” and something called “milk”), to ensure I was aware of/avoiding any allergies. “But I already ordered oat milk to avoid lactose. I told you that. Why do I have to read this in front of you again?”

“Sir, do the QR Code and make sure you have identified the product AND the risk, or no coffee for you! THAT is the company policy!”

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Belper - 7pm:

The River Gardens Chinese Restaurant is a fluorescently lit, red vinyl boothed establishment on the main road out of Belper to Matlock where I had enjoyed an invigorating afternoon stroll. Unlike most patrons, I was “eatin’ un”. In big black letters, a sticky, white table card informed me that “full prepayment” was required or “no food will be served”. So there!!

An order was made. A tantalising heated platter and table setting arrived. The waitress hovered expectantly with her card machine…

My subsequent sweet and sour arrived on a very flat plate with a knife and fork.

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Back on the Circle Line, so many hours earlier, the stilettoed sprinter had assured me that the train “to Barking” was the one I needed.

Given the day I’d had, “Barking” seemed a prescient destination…