A few years ago I was on a late-morning train from Brighton to London luxuriating in the holy trinity of a quiet carriage and an empty table seat with a working plug socket. I’d done that thing where I’d spread my possessions out in an attempt to make it look like I had company who had perhaps just nipped off to the loo, all the better to ward off anyone from sitting near me. I’m not a monster, the rest of the carriage was completely empty, your honour.
With laptop and notebook open I was gearing up to doing some work by attempting this paper’s crossword when a figure clad head to toe in black sidled into the seat opposite. With a mixture of confusion and fury coursing, I snuck a look at the interloper in the reflection of the window. A shock of jet black hair on top of an avalanche of forehead, flared nostrils like two bin lids, sunglasses perched on low slung shirt, more bling on his fingers than Bobby George or even Amol Rajan.
