Good Bye Yellow Brick Road

I'm foolishly trying something simple, All I need to do is get on a plane
and fly back Australia. Of course, as we all know, finding the road to OZ
isn't that easy.

In my case, the Wicked Witch of the West as actually the Goddess of
Time, and she was doing her best to screw with everything.

Being the good, environmentally conscious guy that I am, I thought I could
take my time in a quiet Saturday afternoon and get the train to the
airport. The last time is did this I rapidly got frustrated when I
discovered that the air-train missed the connections with the normal train
by about 20 minutes and it, in general, took far too long and too much
frustration to make this a practical exercise.

So I did my due diligence and actually checked the timetables this time
and found that, for once, they had synchronised things, and it was,
theoretically, possible to make the journey.

Of course, this small fact also depended on everything running on time.

Now it's not so much that I was worried about being late, but my frequent
flyer status entitles me to free champagne in the club lounge. And I hate
things to get in the way of that.

So, naturally, it all went rapidly downhill from the moment I left the
house.

I decided that a leisurely thirty minute walk to the station was
tolerable and actually had the ticket in my hand before I realised that I
had forgotten the power supply to my laptop. So I had to hot foot it into
a cab, swing back to my house, and abandon plans for dinner.

A short time later I was at the station a second time when my phone rang.
It was my B-Plan. This was a friend that I was going to convince to drive
me the the airport, but had failed to answer his phone ( twice ) and so I
actually had to commit the the whole public transport exercise.

"Yeah, you rang, you want to join us for dinner ?"

Now, instead of thinking through this alternative, I fobbed him off with
lame excuses, and found myself at the station staring at a very bright
digital sign that was telling my to 'stay off the tracks'. This was not
entirely helpful because what it wasn't telling me was why the train was
15 minutes late. I actually had to call them to find out that there was
engine trouble.

Dorothy never had it so bad.

Eventually we were on the train but I don't think we'd gone more than 3
miles before we ground to a halt and were informed that there would be
another slight delay because there was a Car overturned on the tracks.
The announcer actually said,

"...How it got there, we don't know"

How ? I'll tell you how. Because people in California can't drive their
cars. In fact I'd be willing to believe that it is actually a requirement
to be able to do something that stupid just to get a license.

"...Now, one last question before you pass the test. If you tried really
hard, could you over turn this monster on the railroad tracks ?"

"Um, Yes, I think I could."

"Good, you pass, here's your license."

(Actually, all it really takes is a pair of teenagers and some alcohol but
this story is already getting too long). So suitably frustrated, late,
unfed, cranky, and waiting for the flying monkeys, I did my best to endure
the ride while sitting behind the kind of mentally ill person who thinks
that humming to themselves off key is perfectly acceptable.

"I'm the Tin Man, He calls himself the scarecrow, and the guy in the
corner is a Lion with no courage"

Yeah, Sure you are.

When I got to the airport, the Club lounge was out of champagne.

Next time I'm taking a cab.