For a weary traveller on his way home after a few days in London, Paddington station has some appealing features. Firstly, there is a left-luggage office where, as the name suggests, you can leave your luggage pending your trip to the airport. Then there is the massively over-priced but exceedingly convenient Heathrow Express rail service which, for the price of a small car, will whisk you to the airport in fifteen minutes in air-conditioned comfort. Lastly, and by no means least, the station offers the opportunity for a shower. How convenient (theoretically).
And so, on my last day in London, I made my way to Paddington where, after the usual range of questions regarding the contents of my luggage, where I lied when asked if I had packed it myself (I answered “yes”, but in fact my wife had helped me by inserting enough underwear to last me a month. She obviously expects incontinence to arrive any day now), I deposited my suitcase and headed off for a day of camera fun with The Son.
Late afternoon I was back again and headed to the information counter to request information on where I might take a shower. The information desk was staffed by someone who may or may not have been wearing a uniform; but whose attitude indicated that he was wearing full regalia and I was a newly recruited private.
Good afternoon, could you tell me where I might take a shower? (Smiles). Platform one. (Doesn’t smile and employs a tone that, in two words, despises me for asking the question and hopes I will fuck off and die). Thank you very much. (Smiles, less convincingly).
Paddington has twelve platforms and the showers, apparently located at platform 1, are at the other end of the station to the left-luggage office which is at platform 12. But as I needed some fresh clothes to change into, I headed for platform 12 and handed over ten pounds to retrieve my case. Case and me then trundled across the width of Paddington to seek out the showers. I found a sign next to platform 1 with an arrow pointing into the depths wherein the men’s toilets were conveniently located so none of the smells could escape. The sign indicated that there were showers available, for which I must pay five pounds, and the ticket for said showers could be obtained at, you guessed it, the left luggage office on platform 12.
My and my increasingly cumbersome suitcase embark on the long trip back to the left-luggage office where I greeted the attendant like a long-lost friend. He greeted me like he had never seen me before and launched into the usual questions about who packed my luggage. I consider confessing about my wife packing my underwear, but instead interrupted him and asked for a shower ticket.
Ticket in hand and luggage trailing behind, I make my way across the station to platform 1 and arrive at the stairs. They are steep and wind away down into the depths of the earth, I don’t really fancy taking a heavy suitcase down there. But there is an arrow pointing to showers and I am increasingly in need of one, so I drag my case down two flights of stairs until I arrive at a turnstile with a man sitting on a chair behind them. I wave my ticket at him.
“Shower?” “Not here, there”. And he waves his hands vaguely upwards.
Oh dear. So I drag my case up the stairs and note that I am becoming very sweaty. At the top of the stairs I look around for a possible location for the elusive shower and see another entrance pointing downwards with a sign saying “shower”. Thank goodness! At last! And I descend the stairs covered in sweat but with the hope that my search is finally at an end. After negotiating many stairs I arrive at the same turnstile with the same man on the chair. He looks as surprised to see me as I am him.
“Where’s the shower?” “Not here, there”. And he waves his hands vaguely upwards. “Where? Exactly?” “Platform 12”. “Fuck”.
One last time (hopefully) I heave my luggage, which by this time weighs at least fifty kilos, up the stairs and stagger across to the toilets at platform twelve. They are right next to the left-luggage office and give no indication that they offer showers.
I wave my soggy ticket at the attendant and whisper “shower?”; knowing full well that if he says “platform 1” I will be on the news the following morning for a mass-slaughter on platforms 1, 12 and all points in between. But what he says is “Yes. But one of them is broken and someone has just occupied the other one”.
I prop myself against the wall and wait. After ten minutes, the attendant (who is called Antonio and is my new best friend) knocks on the door suggesting the occupant could get a move on. This results in a series of expletives from within the shower booth and I wait some more. After twenty five minutes, an angry man exits the shower and, after glaring at me, gives Antonio an earful, with the main themes being that he had only been in there ten minutes, he is a regular visitor, and Antonio is a stupid twat.
I couldn’t stand by and let this happen; so I moved between them and told angry man that he had actually been in there twenty five minutes, that Antonio was only doing his job which mainly involved clearing up shit from the cubicles for a minimum wage; and if he didn’t like it we could take it outside. Of course, I didn’t do that. Instead I adopted a faint smile that indicated I sympathised with both angry man and Antonio but was a spineless wimp who was not going to get involved.
Angry man left, Antonio and I agreed he was awful, Antonio checked the cubicle for bombs and cleaned up the mess; and I had a very nice five minute shower after about forty five minutes of being dicked around.
Here is some feedback for Paddington station: Inform the supercilious twat on the information counter that the showers are on platform twelve. Change the fucking signs. Give Antonio a raise; he is a bright star in your otherwise insipid service.
Comments 🔗
2015-08-14| Spike saysAll my posts are sent out on Twitter. The twitter account for Paddington Station re-tweeted the post; presumably without a human actually reading it first…
2015-08-20| ChristianPFC saysNice story! (Well, nice too read; not so nice for you.)
typo: “My and my increasingly cumbersome suitcase…”
Sweating in England? Can’t remember it even once all the three years I lived there.
Five pounds for a shower? In Thailand, you can get laid for that!