Back in my days working for the famed British Railways—now rebranded as Network Rail, presumably to make it sound more modern and efficient, which, let’s be honest, is a bit like renaming a donkey “Lightning” and expecting it to win the Kentucky Derby—I had what can only be described as a classic railway experience. It was winter. Not the type that turns your extremities into icicles and makes your car battery declare mutiny, but that sort of in-between, not-quite-freezing, still-crisp-enough-to-feel-British kind of winter.
The scene was straight out of a picture book. A colleague and fellow adventurer in the grand tradition of railway engineering and I were out on our usual trek, miles upon miles of walking along concrete cable troughing, inspecting and maintaining our patch of Britain’s finest infrastructure. And what a walk it was. The English landscape stretched out in every direction—rolling hills, vast pastures, Shire horses ambling about like they had important meetings to attend, and the occasional owl looking at us with the kind of judgment normally reserved for your mother-in-law. It was, for all intents and purposes, stunning.
Then, of course, reality set in.
We spotted a railway signal light in need of attention—one of the bulbs had gone out. Not just any bulb, mind you, but the green one. Of course, it was the green one. Because why would anything ever be easy? We called the dispatcher—what the British charmingly call “Signalmen”—and arranged to swap it out. He was cool about it, told us to crack on, but casually mentioned, “Just be mindful, old chaps, that there’s a big ol’ train—quite a fast one, actually—bearing down on you in about ten minutes.”
Now, naturally, as highly trained and competent signal engineers, we scoffed at the danger and assured him, “No worries, mate, we’ve got this.” Famous last words.
My bushy tailed colleague, full of confidence and the enthusiasm of a Labrador that’s just seen a tennis ball, scurried up the signal post, plucked out the old bulb, and proceeded to install the new one. Only, small problem—it wouldn’t go in. He wiggled it, twisted it, gave it a stern talking-to. Nothing. “Bit of a time with this one,” he muttered.
A couple of minutes passed. The train was on the horizon. Panic set in. And suddenly, with all the grace and composure of a man being chased by a wasp, my buddy let out a high-pitched, deeply unmanly wail:
“IT WON’T GO IN! IT WON’T GO IN!”
Now, being a man of action, and channeling the courage of a Navy SEAL, I screamed back, “LET ME HAVE A GO! LET ME HAVE A GO!”
So there we were, two professional railwaymen, broadcasting our frantic struggle over an open radio for the entire network to hear. “It won’t go in!, It won’t go in!” “Let me have a go!, Let me have a go!” Over and over again, like some sort of bizarre mechanical mating ritual.
The train was thundering towards us. I grabbed the bulb, held it in place just long enough for the driver to see a reassuring green light while it attempted to brand my fingers with third-degree burns. Fortunately, gloves exist. The train roared past, and with seconds to spare, we finally managed to jam the stubborn bulb into its socket. Success!
And then, just as we released the radio, we heard it. Laughter. First from the train driver:
“Signals, did it go in, chaps?”
Followed by the dispatcher, chuckling:
“Whatever that was, we don’t want to have a go…”
And that, ladies and gentlemen, is why railway engineering will never, ever be boring.
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A Kings 
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