Reading out of all proportion

One of the bewildering twists and turns of my 37-year local government career actually resulted in my going berserk at Reading (Berks) – as opposed to Reading (Books). It was a simple chain of events. Oh, and the Books thing was just a cheap joke. I worked in Rochdale for just under six years from 1974 to 1979 then got a job back in Bournemouth, where I was born and had begun an illustrious local government career in October 1966! As you may have already read, there were some initial advantages to the job at that time! Upon the return to my home town, there was a recession in the North West and thousands of workers were suffering a three-day week. The property market was therefore pretty stagnant in that area and I spent the next two years (the time it took to sell our house) travelling backwards and forwards on trains. The one I mostly caught (on every other Friday) was the daily 09.26 service (or was it the 09.24? it seemed to matter in them days) from Bournemouth Central to Manchester Piccadilly, which took a cross-country route (thus involving no changes in London) and took six hours or thereabouts. One of the scheduled stops was Reading and, if memory serves, it was not long after the introduction of the wizzo Inter-City 125 service (so-called because the trains actually went 125 mph – well, when there wasn’t dust or jam on the track), one of which passed through Reading (without stopping) on the way from London to Exeter (I’m sure Hutters or Mr Hedgehog will confirm or deny the factual nature of these witterings). It was, however, quite impressive to see one of these new machines thundering through the station at a rate of knots! Anyway, where was I? Oh yes, going berserk. On my first journey on the jolly old 09.26, we duly arrived at Reading (forwards). Can you see where this is going? I thought I was going to be able to at the time. After some rather unnerving joltings, the train began to leave – arrrgh! – backwards!! Coupled with the entirely irrational (I accept) need to sit facing the direction of travel and the resumption of the journey in a direction completely opposite to that which had been hitherto prevalent, my senses took a turn for the berserkness. I could not understand why we were going in the opposite direction – obviously I was on the wrong train and goodness knows where I would end up, or how much more it would cost me (times were hard). For a short time, I ran amok with a mental machete, chopping the heads off passengers and an assortment of British Rail (remember them?) employees for not telling me I was on a train that was going anywhere other than my desired destination. After I found out that Reading was where the diesel engine was replaced with an electric one and, via a system of intricate points and other nifty railway-type devices, we ended up going in a north-westerly direction as planned, my running amokness subsided and I returned to my seat, mentally apologising to all the people I had hacked to death in my railway information vacuum. When all's said and done, it had been an unnerving experience. Funny how the mind plays tricks.