Nothing to Declare

I’m at Swindon station, where I’ve been cordially told that there is no scheduled train from here to the next station along (ten minutes away) for two hours. The man at the ticket desk kindly informed me that there was no demand for the service – ironic, I thought, as I was demanding it – and even more bizarre based on what he said counted as research, namely the number of people entering and leaving the station. Now, given the fact there is no service to come in for, how could they possibly know – or is there something I’m missing here? Equally ironic is the reason why I went to Kemble rather than Swindon in the first place, that the car park is always too full by the time I get to the station to make use of it. The car park at Kemble itself was heaving, 300 cars I was told, busier and busier by the day, but still, no call for any more than a minimal service between the two stations. It just doesn’t stack up.

Integrated transport system. Pshaw.

The trouble with Ian Banks…

… or even Iain Banks (so, you know he’s Scottish from the very first thing you know about him, and you won’t be forgetting that, will you now), is that all of his main characters are the same. Sassy women, rock heroes, war heroines, journalists, players, they all possess an impeccable wisdom, wit and logic that is unswervably Banksian. Essentially, he writes to express his fantasies on the printed page. There’s nothing wrong with this – indeed, the results are to be applauded, but despite the stylistic changes, the clever uses of the language, the flashes back and forward I can’t help wondering if Oor Iain is a bit of a comfort zone creature. Amalgamating a few central characters, he likes to live slightly dangerously, enjoys good sex and a few drugs occasionally, and likes to be the centre of a conversation. He values his independence, enjoys his music and feels decidedly uncomfortable that he is getting older, to the extent that he indulges in things that might incite the occasional snigger from those around him. All of which is probably about as far from the truth, but heck. It’s a Sunday.