Pop Shield

Oh Kenny La Vitz. You were sooo right when you chose to sing those words “it ain’t over til it’s over”. I’ve been on the home strait up to Christmas for so long I’ve forgotten what a corner even looks like.

Last night I set my alarm super early on account of the fierce weather warnings. Storms were all set to ravage the country and leave the nation in transport chaos on one of the biggest travelling days of the year.

I awoke this morning and jumped straight on to the computer for a travel update on the trains. A disappointing sea of red font. Cancelled. Cancelled. Cancelled. Cancelled. The first train of the morning stops EVERYWHERE, but it hopes to reach Kings Cross at 8.17am. I am due in at 8.30am, to go on air at 9.30am.

In the likelihood of further delays, I set about researching the possibility of driving in, over a bowl of cereal. I investigate congestion tax and how to apply for that. How much?!!! Ouch. I’ll hold off until I’ve sorted some parking. I find the email with the link. Ok, so there’s a booking system for the secret corporation emergency carpark which requires that you watch a training video to understand how to fill the form in. This does not bode well. I generate a password and start making an intelligent guess at filling in the form without resorting to the video. It’s going fine up until the point that I have to enter an authorisation code that needs to be issued by someone in my office. No one will be in my office. It’s not long until I realise train is probably my best bet after all. I call the Broadcast Manager and tell him I’ll be late, but I’ll be there, and I’ll keep him posted. Grab my bag and go.

It’s pitch dark as I reverse out of the drive. My rear sensor starts bleeping manically. Assuming I’m a bit close to the hedge, I pull forward and go again. Then I feel a little bump as I reverse round the corner. I realise that our prized phlomis tree in the front garden is horizontal across the drive.

Demister, wipers, windscreen heater, full beams, radio. I set off down the dark flooded country lanes. Ahead, I see some kind of high viz blob on the other side of the road. I decelerate and recognise the object as a cyclist. He is tangled up in his bicycle. He and his bicycle are tangled up in a fallen tree. Poor chap, he probably had his head down then CRUNCH. I wind down the window.

“You okay?”

I am very relieved when he says “Yes, I’m alright, thanks.”

At the station there are no trains running yet. Just a blank board and a bearded railway worker wearing an orange boiler suit and some green tinsel wrapped around his hat.

The first train of the day arrives, and I embark on a protracted and painstakingly slow journey. We stop at stations I didn’t even know are on the route, so blurred are the signs when I normally pass them. We stop whenever there is a whiff of a train from the rival company. We stop in the middle of nowhere for no apparent reason. I look at my phone for the hundredth time and notice I’m due to start in ten minutes. Then I glance out of the window expecting to see some grey urban sprawl……I spy with my little eye……something beginning with……H!…… Hackney? Houses? Hornsey? No. A HORSE IN A FIELD. Oh bother. More texts to Joe and Gareth. Gareth kindly agrees to run down and set up my studio up during his records.

A few months later, my train limps into the terminus. I weave my way through the families and the suitcases and the armfuls of presents and peg it in to work. On arriving at the studio, I find everyone sat down in position waiting for me. I feel like a teacher late for class. “Oh my God. You made it” says Bambi Twinkletoes peering up through her trademark fringe. “I really want to practice this hideous quiz. It’s beyond terrifying. Can we?”

“Hello! Sorry. Nightmare. Yes. Excellent idea. Give me a sec and I’m right with you.”

Luckily, I am prepared for this. I line up the quiz beds and stings and bonus questions.

Remembering how to recreate the perennial One Year Out quiz is the radio equivalent of trying to cook your grandmother’s favourite recipe. It’s beyond familiar. Everyone’s watched her make it over and over again. Everyone’s eaten it on a thousand occasions. But nobody in the family can accurately reproduce it. Why is that?! I reckon Zen Hoots does voodoo on everyone else at night to stop them from accurately remembering the correct sequence.

Anyway, Zen must have been on the sherry last night cos his mumbo jumbo isn’t working on Bambi, Joe and I today. We rock it just fine.

Billy’s travel bulletins are peppered with references to travel carnage in Dorset. I try not to think about the 180 miles that lie between here and bed. Otherwise, the show is going well. That is, until about two thirds of the way through, when the playout controller starts putting itself spontaneously into a pre-fade/cue-in state whenever it feels like it. Oh baubles. I bring up the emergency cart page, sort out a workaround for the rest of the show then call the maintenance engineers. I stay on to oversee a couple of Auto Robot junctions and then my shift is done.

As I leave, there is no big celebratory Christmas sign off. Just the enduring feel-good image of Conrad looking through the desk log fault files. And the heart-warming sound of Gary on the phone to the facilities help desk reporting a water leak through the corridor ceiling. A truly festive moment. Our own little Christmas movie scene. I skip off into the torrential rainstorm.

And so, for the Hollywood happy ending. The trains back home are running fine. On arriving home, I notice that the other beautiful tree in the front garden – an oleander – has been uprooted. Unlike the phlomis, the roots are still intact, so I am able to reseat it. Upon entering the house, I look like I’ve been through a hedge backwards. That’s because I actually have.

Then I set my out of office, my holiday voicemail, put my work pass and keys away in a drawer. I quickly pack my bag for Christmas. We drive through the dark night to Phil and Sylvia’s – accompanied on our way by the Nations Favourite Christmas songs – and we cross the finishing line.

THE END.