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The air has been thick with smoke recently, the sight of which makes me want to cough, yet I know it could be so much worse because I have experience of awful pollution.
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The air had cleared briefly on Friday night but yesterday we were getting air quality alerts on our phones.
Today down pouring rain may wash it away. At the very least it will water the garden.
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Pollution was largely what caused me to have childhood asthma, though at the time my mother was told it was due to dust and pollen. When it grew pitch dark during the day in 1952, I had no idea what smog consisted of.
The above photograph from piximus offers an idea of just how bad smog could get in London. Vehicles could only creep along at a snail’s pace. Even quite a few years later London was frequently fog-bound although by then I think some of the more noxious components had been removed.
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Flight diversions were a common problem and I was lucky to only end up in the wrong place three times.
The first time, my flight landed in Prestwick with the crew running out of hours, so the passengers were dispersed by chartered train.
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A meal was offered in a local hotel after which everyone was carted off to the station for the long journey which would finish up in London, sometime in the small hours.
However, I was rescued from that disagreeable night.
What happened instead was – different, certainly.
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The flight dispatcher in New York had persuaded the Purser to offer me a seat in First Class where I skulked trying to make myself invisible.
During our long hours on the ground in Prestwick, though, a businessman noticed me and when it became obvious that alternate arrangements would be necessary, he approached with a suggestion.
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He and a colleague were considering chartering a private aeroplane, – would I be interested in joining them? Another woman was already interested.
There was me, with no pot to piss in! I seem to remember smiling noncommittally.
In the event, no aircraft was available, but when it was announced that we were to be de-planed, I discovered that I had become part of this small group. The business man rounded me up in the customs hall saying that we would speed our way to the hotel in a taxi in order to arrive before the busloads of other passengers. We would get rooms in which to shower and rest and we would get bunks on the night-sleeper, arriving in London at a civilised hour.
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It was still more than I could afford – £40 as I recall – but it wouldn’t ruin me, and I did not wish to find myself in Waterloo at 4 am, so I was happy with the plan.
With so many delayed flights to accommodate, the hotel had but a single room on offer and the receptionist gave dark looks to the four of us as we checked in, obviously wondering what we were up to, but she need not have worried.
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Showered and refreshed, we eschewed the meal offered by my employer in favour of the unlikely choice of a Chinese restaurant, during which dinner we drank a fair amount of fine Scotch whisky from the business man’s duty-free purchases, the notion being that we would “pour ourselves” onto the train and get a decent night’s sleep.
Once aboard however, a bottle of hundred year-old Trinidad rum was produced. I vaguely recall the business man’s colleague protesting that he planned to leave the train in Carlisle and he was off to bed. What the other woman did, I’ve no idea. I found myself politely consuming more alcohol before falling intoxicated onto my bunk.
Oh…do not mix fine Scotch and aged rum, or any version thereof, I am sure. To say I arrived in London hungover would be to put it mildly. Hungover and jet-lagged, I was entrusted to the business man’s chauffeur who had come to meet the train and who imparted his own version of a dark look. Where the man himself went, I don’t know. To his office, I suppose. He seemed far more resilient than I.
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The chauffeur drove me across London to Paddington, where I boarded another train that transported me some 24 hours late to Swindon, where a bemused relative collected me and from the look she gave me, it was obvious she recognised my sorry state!
It was certainly not my finest hour.
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At some time during this episode, I had come clean about my lowly status as an employee of the airline that was being heavily criticised for their handling of the delay, somewhat unfairly given the utter chaos. My companions laughed. I took their business cards and forwarded their information to our customer services department who in due course wrote letters of apology.
Ever since that experience I have been very careful not to become intoxicated while travelling. It is unwise, especially if you are a woman. While nothing untoward happened to me, it easily could have in different company.
Thank you, Carolyn, for the fascinating story of your travels with a kind businessman and his bottle of rum! London is less polluted now than it was at the time you were passing by. You are right that one shouldn’t mix whisky and rum, or perhaps drink as much, easily said when you are teetotal, as I am.
Joanna
It’s a sign of the times that you survived that journey without being molested by that helpful businessman. Imagine what would have happened to you in this day and age? It’s a great story though, and small wonder you recall it so vividly.
Best wishes, Pete.
Good story. And with a Swindon ending!
Wow, what a story! You were so lucky that after drinking so much hard liquor, nothing happened to you.
The B&W photo of the smog is excellent! It’s great that we’ve come so far concerning pollution, or is that in some countries? But sad that we’re still not doing enough around the globe.
Oh wow, this is a story which I’m glad you survived to tell (without any serious consequences – except for the hangover bit, I guess). However, I would not advise any of my friends’ kids (all in their mid-20s) to do what you did back then 😉.