The journey begins...

Wednesday 24th March

Day One: All aboard the choo choo train

At last, the day has arrived. However, this substantial amount of anticipation has not equipped me with the motivation to actually pack. I finally hoist the zips around my suitcase at 11:45am- enough time to run to my last lecture of the Semester (I spend it playing hangman and trying to remember what I've forgotten), return to my halls, lug my suitcase down the stairs, collide into the general public on the bus and scramble into Manchester Piccadilly for 2pm. Phew.

As I stroll up to my train, I smile at the sleek yellow and red face of the Virgin Train. This is certainly no Arriva Wales gaol wagon where a woman once accosted me and sang an operatic version of Holly Valance's 'Kiss, Kiss' into my shoulder. This, my friends, is train class.

How very wrong I was.

I slip into my designated seat and one thing out of the ordinary catches my eye: children. It's not that I don't know they exist but did I ever think they existed on trains before? In my mind, trains are reserved for determined business men who slump back in their seats, savouring the syruped churn of the engine, and students battling with laundry bags on their mission back home. Yet here they are, smiling sweetly from prams, and I think nothing more to their presence on the train as I nestle into my seat and bring out my book.

Next, a couple amble on guiding a small dog worthy of Paris Hilton's handbag and sit across the way from me. The toddlers are in awe as they start swiping at the dog who retreats under the seat, scurrying away from their mauling arms. I've never seen a dog on a train before, yet his docile nature endears me to indulge in a tickle behind his ears before returning back to my reading.

Ten minutes in and they start. One of the toddlers starts cawing out to his Mother, brandishing a yoghurt spoon about and screeching as he drops it. 'Shhhh' his Mum lazily asserts as she flicks the page of her more magazine. I scoop out my ipod to find the headphones are broken- pants. The kid's screech turns into a constant wail which sets off the dog who starts yapping at the other toddler who in turn thinks 'I can definitely do better than that' and starts bellowing as the train rumbles into the next station. We're only in Stockport.

The onslaught goes on and I'm wondering if anyone else's head is starting to churn. The dog owners phone goes off, pumping out dance tunes and I slump against the seat in front. Yet, after a minute, I lift my head as I scrabble with the realisation that it's not a ringtone at all. Yes, they are in fact playing Cascada amongst the din. Good God. As the acid rhythms peter out, on comes the next song yet alas! The toddlers still as the sound of the Glee Cast sing out 'Don't Stop Believing'. I make a mental note to remember this when I eventually have kids of my own and enjoy a 3 minute break from the rowdiness. Yet, oblivious to the power they wield amongst the ambience of the carriage, the couple move on to another helium endorsed dance song and its back to the orchestra of yowls.

30 minutes later, the chavvy crew leave the train and I celebrate by updating my facebook status. I realise that I'm being a train snob but my head is pounding by this point and I hate it when people have no qualms about disrupting people around them. What's more, it wasn't even as if they were teenagers. Why on earth do 30 year olds even have Cascada on their phone? Sad bastards.

There's peace amongst the train for about an hour yet toddler #2 brings in a coughing fit in the last 20 minutes that sounds like an inebriated chewbacca impression with extra gargling and passionate leg flailing to boot. Her Mum carts her off into the outer section yet I can still hear her. Lord, she reminds me of the little girl from the Spanish Horror film Rec, who looked very sweet, yet continued to infect the whole building and turn them into rampaging zombies with a lust for gruesome murder. Hope she doesn't do that.

As the train pulls into Euston I let a 'hurrah' escape me and I battle towards the underground. Though this was the part I was most afraid of, I find it quick, easy and I'm at London Victoria within 10 minutes. I stroll about outside for a few moments, taking in the sights of the Victoria Theatre (Wicked is still playing and I'd love to see it again). Then it's off to catch the Gatwick Express and before I know it, I'm at the airport.

My struggle isn't quite over yet as after wheeling out of the train station, I find I'm lost in a maze of WHSmiths and check in desks. I cart about for 20 minutes trying to find ways to log into a natural sense of direction. Note to everybody: GPS does not work inside buildings and I finally give in and ask at the information desk where he instructs me towards my hotel. I check in, bounce on my Kingsize bed (phwoaaar), get dinner (brie and red onion chutney on ciabatta- mmm), shower, watch gossip girl before switching off my light. I'm dropping into a hazy state of sleep when an alarm shrieks out. I snap up in my bed, terrified by the epic sound and the darkness that swells around me and haste to get out of my room. The corridor starts

to fill up with half dressed people, confused by the din and I slip past, down the stairs to find out what's going on.

'Somebody accidentally opened a fire door' claims the man at the desk and with that, I plod back to my room, burrow into my bed and finally slide into a peaceful sleep.