My First Day

"He's a wanker mate"

It's 7am and we're speeding down the A47. My eyes are clogged with sleep cum and fag smoke. I'm not in the mood for conversation.

"Your 'as to Kettrin' in 45 minutes mate. He's fuckin' mental mate, we'll never do it"

I'd booked the taxi the night before. I thought the timings were optimistic but what do I know? I'm not a cabby, they're steeped in this mystic road confidence bullshit. If they say it'll take 45 minutes then you can bet there's 10 minutes built in for arriving late after sneaking in a crafty shit.

"Look, if we... christ... if we miss the train". At this point, I'm not sure who this 'we' is, he has a firm economic interest in me not catching the train, but I've already let him spark up in the cab so as far as I'm concerned we're muckers now and this is our Somme. "How much will it cost to get to Luton?".

A long, ruminative drag on the fag followed.

"Dunno mate, we've gotta get round the one way system first, thats a bastard. After that we're round the upper gyratory and into the Kennington flaps, could be another hour and 60 quid if we get caught behind a lorry in the Wentworth Banana".

I confess, I don't drive and I tuned out after 'one way'. I understood though, that missing the train would result in a severe financial shafting.

20 minutes later I was on the platform just in time for the train. The train, as always in these situations, was fashionably late.

4 hours later I was in Turin. A frantic windmilling of arms and fragments of Italian had procured me a coffee and a cake. I had learned, not for the last time, that language courses are designed by a guffawing cabal of sadists intent on making you look like a tit. No local calls a cake 'una pasta'; if an Italian ever asks you where to catch the omnibus for the roller disco you can bet they've been using a BBC course.

The night mists descended as we hurtled out of Porta Nouva station. At the end of the line I hauled my battered luggage onto the platform of Knockers station. I approached a local and asked him where the taxi rank was. He was Russian. And he didn't speak Italian. Or English. Or French. We got on fabulously.

I lugged my cases across Piazza Roma, down Via Italia, past Via Cavour, along Via Vittorio Emmanuel, round Garibaldi Circus and into 'Hey look! We unified the country!" Road. The girl at reception was pleasant. I explained that I was English, I had come to work, I was a train and wanted very much to build house in the fungus, danke. She smiled indulgently and gave me a key. We switched to French for the directions. I had to look for number 38, or 380, or perhaps 3/8. It was near a bakery though, so I couldn't go wrong.

There are 7 bakeries in downtown Knockers. Trust me.