The Ticket That Evaporated

About six weeks ago I decided to initiate Operation Motorcycle Silencer for the fourth year in a row.
Every summer Aberdare Park hosts the Welsh National Road Races, organised by the Aberaman Motorcycle Club. I don't begrudge it for a second, because it brings a welcome boost to our local economy, it's a chance for old friends to catch up and to make new friends, and it puts one of the finest Victorian municipal parks in Wales firmly on the map.
But (as you can probably imagine) it's a fairly loud affair. Even though modern bikes run a lot more quietly than their older brothers, you bring a couple of thousand of the buggers into one place and the noise level soon becomes pretty challenging. As I live literally two streets from the circuit, as often as possible I've decided to spend the Saturday as far from Trecynon as I can possibly be. After receiving a 25% discount voucher from National Express, and with the latest copy-edit running on schedule, it seemed that London was a distinct possibility. I grabbed the offer and booked my ticket back in June. Or so I thought …
Anyway, I don't remember printing out my ticket, which I usually do straight away. After nearly getting my fingers burned on my birthday, when I had 3% battery life on my mobile in Trafalgar Square and an e-ticket that needed to be shown in Victoria Coach Station, I've been eschewing the paperless option. I must have been in the library when I booked the coach, so why I didn't do it straight away is a mystery. Maybe 7 June was a wayzgoose. I can't remember.
On Wednesday afternoon it dawned on me that I needed my ticket, so I logged on at a library PC and hunted through my emails for the booking confirmation. Nothing. I checked my other email inbox in cae I'd used the alternative account. Still nothing. I returned to my laptop to dig a bit further. I couldn't even find the booking on the National Express website. Then I had this email from National Express, even while I was scouring my inboxes for any sign of the ticket.
Well, that fucked everything almost as comprehensively as if Boris Johnson and Donald Trump had organised a joint birthday orgy. Let me explain …
Last time I came back from London, at the end of May, the coach took so long to get to the M4 that we had about ten minutes to spare before the last train ran down from Cathays. (The station is about a minute's walk from the Cardiff University coach stop.) However, Sophia Gardens is on the other side of town, a good twenty-minute walk from Cardiff Central, and probably the same distance from Cathays. If I'd been treating that as my destination, I think Rowland or Maria would have had an unexpected house guest for the night.
I made a note of the reference in the email and went outside to make the phone call. After a couple of minutes in a queue I spoke to a very helpful guy named Neil. I outlined the situation, and explained that Sophia Gardens wasn't a viable alternative for people travelling into the Valleys. Especially if the time margin is as tight as it was last time. Neil understood where I was coming from, and said he'd see what he could do. At which point the plot thickened even further.
Neil searched his computer and couldn't find any record of a booking under either of my email addresses. He found several previous bookings (of course) but nothing for this Saturday. I mentioned that I'd used a money-off voucher, so he checked that subsystem as well. Nothing. He asked me if I minded holding while he spoke to a colleague, which I was happy to do. After a couple of minutes he came back on the line. He asked me if I could find proof of the transaction on my bank statement. I told him I'd have to check and get back to him. Could I have paid via PayPal? Well, possibly, but once again I'd have to check and get back to him. Get ready for the next plot twist, boys and girls …
My Nationwide statement didn't show any transactions for 7 June. Neither did my PayPal account. It didn't make any difference, as – even if the ticket did mysteriously reappear – I'd have been very reluctant to gamble on that last train to Aberdare.
William S. Burroughs wrote a famous experimental novel, published in 1962, called The Ticket That Exploded. Well, mine was The Ticket That Evaporated. I must have taken the Red Pill on 7 June, as I'd obviously conducted the whole transaction in some virtual simulation of the Real World. I emailed Neil at National Express yesterday morning to thank him for his help and patience. I attached my Facebook screenshot and told him I hope he has a better weekend than the one I had planned. Mysterious, isn't it …?

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