After another struggle with my bed, I get into work to see Marcus, the early-turn ticket clerk, standing outside the ticket barrier in a high-visibility vest and the ticket office closed. What's going on? It takes a minute to sink in, since I'm still thinking of a decent excuse for being late, but then it dawns on me—the ticket office is closed. The problem is defective lighting—a minor electrical fault, it seems, but it could be a few hours before it's sorted out. What better gift could I have expected than this surprise respite from the rush-hour pummel? Not to mention the chance to stand around and gloat as the public try and fail to buy their tickets.
We tell passengers that they should pay at their destinations. It's a happy morning—mooching around, telling people to go away is a rather unexpected pleasure, a lucky bonus, like finding a fiver in your back pocket or hearing your ex has been run over. Unfortunately, an electrician soon turns up and, despite my pleas for him to take his time, looks rather keen. But just when all seems lost, it becomes apparent that the guy is completely incompetent—he wanders off, peering into the multitude of switch rooms, searching for a tripped fuse that the supervisor has already failed to find.
Then, suddenly, the ticket hall is awash with revenue inspectors, who have come in plain clothes intending to catch all the fare-dodgers but who are now forced into drawing out their prehistoric books of paper tickets. They stand in a long line by the public telephones, calling out, "Anyone want singles or returns?" like ticket touts outside a football match.
The group manager has turned up with someone from an office to watch how the queues are causing havoc in the cramped ticket hall. Despite the absence of a ticket office, they've got plenty to watch since most passengers have resolutely ignored our attempts to get them to go where they want without paying, and are queuing at all three of the ticket machines. The newest machine, which sells weekly travelcards, stands out in the ticket hall, six people waiting to use it, flashing "Beat the Queues" in bright lights.
Meanwhile, the electrician is trying to throw a switch on a large fuse box, which features a big sticker saying, "Before you throw this you must ring Station Ops," and a phone number. But when the supervisor rings it, they don't know what he's on about. "Station Ops?" they ask him. "What's that?"
The two older ticket machines break down in quick succession, giving us two clerks a quiet laugh as we start taking bets on which bit of the station is going to cave in next. We try to fix the machines, only for a power surge to render the main machine impervious to our plaintive coaxing. Now the computer won't even let us sign on and we are forced to break into it, setting off a piercing and unremitting alarm.
Amazingly, there are still hordes of people trying to buy tickets, and a few of the better-bred ones have taken to telling us how pathetic we are and how awful the system is, for whatever dull reason they are trying to impress upon us. Just when it seems no amount of whistling and looking the other way will get rid of them, they are placated by the group manager's rather slippery attentions. He does it with a gentle finesse, with the air of someone who doesn't have to do it very often.
Suddenly the rush abates and we are left twiddling our thumbs as the electrician discusses the sledgehammer-and-nut approach of shutting down the entire sub-station. The revenue mob get back to their usual job of ambushing dozy tourists and the group manager vanishes in a puff of smoke, back to his magic castle.
A duty manager phones me up. They want me to go and work at another station until the electricity is fixed. I refuse. I have no intention of letting them steal my lucky break. I can dimly remember some part of the framework agreement between unions and management that says that the bosses need to give me 24 hours' notice before making me work at another station. The manager insists this is not the case. I phone my rep. He thinks I'm right, but has to phone someone on the functional council. Even if I'm wrong, it will eat up the time.
We stand around, discussing the mini-riot that was caused down the line by a hyperactive station assistant chasing a fare-dodger out into the street. A passenger asks me if she needs to change to go to Euston. "No," I tell her, "you look fine as you are." She gives me a satisfying grimace.
In the darkened ticket office I find the water cooler has leaked all over the floor. This large pool of water immediately says "accident at work." In the dark? Pool of water? Me? Surely not. But for a foolproof case, I really need someone reliable to act as a witness, and my otherwise decent colleague has just told me he's decided to become a police special constable. I discount him and return outside, grateful for the respite the day has afforded me, but knowing that the power will be fixed and I'll be back on the window soon enough.
