Ramblings

Yesterday I was very brave.

Not in any world-saving, earth-shattering, war-abating sense but, in a small 'I can do this' way, I faced down my fears and went to Nottingham.
OK, so that probably sounds fairly pathetic but, if you take into consideration my newly discovered phobia, 'new situations', you may begin to get an idea of what I'm taking about.

There was a time when...*

...but now I find the idea of the unknown (too often, too easily) paralyses me before I even start.

My previous attempt to seek out the Nottingham Writers' Club (@NW_C) was  swiftly overwhelmed by a long day at work, an over-the-phone therapy session with my mentalist and a deluge of nigh on biblical proportions. Just one short lifeline... 'Are you sure you want to go out in this...wouldn't you rather have a bath?' carelessly cast by my eldest son and I happily snatched it up, put on the kettle and grabbed the latest 'recommended by Amazon' before barring the bathroom door.

And so to yesterday’s bravery… or whatever you might call it.

The train journey wasn’t as bad as the one I had travelled in my head during the night - Nottingham station was.

Dirty, dingy and depressing. Signless, looless and Paperchaseless. Not impressive. I ducked into WHS to buy water and browse the overpriced books. The girl behind the counter looked at me listlessly and muttered something incomprehensible under her breath.

‘Sorry?’

She repeated the unintelligible noise, then evidently shocked by my failure to respond, began to speak as though to a very deaf and particularly senile relative.

‘Do You Want Any Of Our Special Offer Chocolate Deals?’ Each pause emphasised her evident disbelief at my stupidity.

‘Um, no thanks – just the water.’ I could feel the blood beginning to pound in my temple as the queue lengthened behind me.

‘Oneeightythen.’

One pound eighty for a bottle of lukewarm water? I quickly put a two pound coin down on the counter and hurried out, her cry of ‘wadabatchachange’ ringing through the station rafters as I fled.

Outside. A row of taxis, rank and file. I know about taxis, have learnt (painfully) the lesson of how to approach (directly), how to enquire (politely and clearly), how to get to where you want to go… I passed him the printout, my thumb pressed to highlight the address.

‘Sherwood Street. Yes?’

‘Yes, number 3.’

‘Sherwood Street. Yes?’

Taking this as affirmation that he knew where we were going I clambered ungracefully into the immense vacuum of the back of the cab and fastened myself in. The meter started at two pounds before he’d even set off. The voice in my head began to remind me of all the things that could go wrong. Surreptitiously, I checked my bag, my purse, the address, the date, the time…

We pulled out onto the main road, (two pounds eighty).

‘So what is it the place?’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘Sherwood Street is very long. This place you are going to. What is it?’ (Three pounds forty).

‘Um… well… I think it’s near Trent University?’ (I’ve been to Nottingham before…I now know there are two universities, thank you very much).

‘But what is this building to which you are going?’

Obviously I was being remarkably obtuse. I could not for the life of me work out what he meant.

‘I don’t know. I haven’t been there before. I do have the postcode?’ This was evidently not going to help. The meter had reached five pounds twenty and I was sure we’d already been down this road.

Deep breath. Think.

‘If you could drop me near the university that would be fine.’

Silence. (Six pounds forty).

‘If you could drop me near the university I would be OK.’

Silence. Then.

‘This is Sherwood Street.’

‘Oh. Good, I mean, thank you.’

‘I will drop you here. Yes?’

‘Yes. Thank you. Yes, this will be fine.’

Quickly, and with a disproportionate sense of relief, I handed over the requisite seven pounds eighty sans tip and scrambled out of the taxi and into the street.

Where was I? I didn’t care. Which direction? Didn’t matter! I would have quite happily walked back to Chesterfield rather than venture into another taxi.

The man on the phone was lovely.

‘You’re where? Royal Concert Hall? Oh, that’s easy. Just walk back down the hill, past the Orange Tree Pub and we’re thirty metres on the left. I’ll look out for you.’

Thank you to the people at Nottingham Mechanics.

Thank you to the wonderful members of the NWC who made me feel most welcome.

Most of all, thank you to the lovely people who directed me to the tram that I took on my return journey to the station.

I may venture out again…