Intoxicated by God on the 3:15 express. (The Digestive Aug 9-15)

Which would you rather have 1) a handy weekly summary of everything you missed in a week-or-less of these pages (called the Digestive) - a new bumble bee toothbrush-holder, a new CD, an evil sister in-law who kills roses and a poached egg (it was a thin week) - or 2) a story about a Hindu goddess that works on the French Railways?

My friend Michael, visiting from SE England where people may know more about these sort of things than I do, believes that the local female representative of the French railway system is a reincarnated Hindu deity.

To be fair, as I wasn’t in the previous paragraph, Michael does know a thing or two about this - having attended at least ONE Buddhist retreat in his time.

Otherwise I would suspect that he fancied her.

The reason for his enlightenment concerning her celestial origins owes much to the fact that he tried to catch a train from the small rural station where she works – and which, if he is right, will soon rival Lourdes for pilgrims of all faiths, though mostly eastern.

That and the fact that she looks uncannily like Sri Anandamayi Ma

He had cycled several kilometers - mostly downhill - to catch a train to the city in order to meet me and then drive to the airport to pick up his “belle”.

He padlocked his bike to a convenient piece of blue metal, bought a ticket from her specialness and then waited on the platform; he was a little early so he wandered to the end of the platform.

Nothing happened.

For a while.

A bit like this story.

Fearing that he might miss his connection he wandered back to her beautiness and asked in comical French what had happened to the train.

“Hasn’t it come?”

“No.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes”

I think you will agree that the conversation was a little mystical.

Her holiness then phoned someone and then continued –

“It’s been, didn’t you see it?”

“No!”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, I was standing out there,” and he gestured to the platform.

“You should have been standing out there,” she said and gestured to the carpark.

Now both of them were confused.

Apparently the train was a bus – the line is being repaired or upgraded and a minibus ensures the connections along this section of the network for the time being.

Her oneness showed Michael where it said “autocar” on his ticket and Michael uttered a guttural sound that meant, “Please help me, I don’t speak, read or understand any French”.

She had understood this already – a useful ability shared by all those recently reincarnated it seems.

Michael was stuck, the next train-bus-thing was not for several hours and he would miss dinner (with me) and reunion (with his love).

Grrrlllooooat.

He repeated his guttural grunts.

Her lightnessofbeingness took to the phone again and after a long conversation announced that SNCF were sending a taxi to pick him up and drive him across the valleys to a nearby town from where another service operated.

Michael paid 12 euro for his ticket; SNCF paid about 30 to ensure that he used it.

No wonder the system is struggling to stay in the red.