The 17.05 from King's Cross

I hate it when you're kept back behind the barrier and not allowed to
board, even when the train is sitting there waiting for you. I stand
there with my baggage arranged around my feet, buttressed against
attack, staring at the destination board with mounting disquiet.

I sift silently, sorting the pros from the amateurs. Identifying the
ones who steam down the platform aggressively and stake first claim.
The ones who fill acres of luggage rack with trappings, blocking the
aisle while taking defiant possession of a fortified fiefdom; a
private office with laptop, phone and smug disregard. These are the
ones I avoid.

I take silent note of groups. Groups boisterous, groups cackling and
groups playschool and I always conclude that salvation can only ever
be found in the quiet coach, the place where excessive anything can
be tut-tutted from the moral high ground.

They appeared at the last minute, just as the heavy automatic doors were sealing our tomb and they homed straight in on my comfortable haven. Three men of singular demeanour, blissfully unaware of the death rays I had been emitting in defence of my space. They slid defiantly into the three vacant spaces around my table and continued their dialogue with an imperious lack of recognition or acknowledgement. The three amigos in bright chinos, desert boots and paisley neckerchiefs.

'Annabel's is a veritable mixing bowl', said the guy sitting next to me, 'a place where anyone who is anyone has to be seen.'

The other two stared blankly at him whilst slowly beginning to unpack a number of ominous looking possessions onto the table.

'That's what you told us Nigel,' said the guy opposite me rather cautiously, 'and that's why we spent most of our weekend and all of our cash in there, but I was more than a little disappointed.'

'I tend to agree with Julian,' said the guy next to him. 'It was full of
those loutish footballers doing their best to blow this weeks three
hundred 'k' on champagne and hangers on. Some of those women they
were wearing were outrageous.'

'Weren't they just,' grinned Nigel. 'They looked and behaved like people from another planet.'

'That girl that was nearly wearing that red dress certainly did.' said
Julian. 'She went apoplectic when that guy put the frog on her knee.
God knows where he got it from.'

'I wondered that too,' replied Nigel. Not too many frogs in Mayfair, not
the amphibious ones anyway.'

Conversation was suddenly cut short by a long garbled message from Derek, our conductor. He told us, with mounting enthusiasm, where we were going, how long it would take and what it would cost if he found us with the wrong ticket. He was also pleased to inform us that snacks and beverages were now available in car F at the rear of the train.

Adjusting to my penned-in exclusion, I had little alternative but to stare blankly out of the window and watch the yellow brick underbelly of north London slide by at an ever quickening pace. I tried to immerse
myself in the world outside, where people were being caught red
handed by the 17.05 slipping silently past, but encroaching darkness
slowly made this impossible. A new, reflected picture, oozed onto my
screen showing the three amigos advertising the enormous potential of
Tupperware; and my heart sank.

'I've been looking forward to this all day!' exclaimed Julian triumphantly. 'I bought this at the deli counter in Harrods. Salad Nicoise with garlic flavoured olive oil. They even put it into my own container.'

'Fabulous,' quipped Nigel, ' but I need something much more substantial.'

'Me too,' added Gerry as he prised the top from his plastic box. 'I'm
going to tuck into my vegan meatloaf and wash it down with fizzy
elderflower.'

I turned inwards and watched with dismay as our banquette mutated into an exclusive picnic area. The words 'vegan meatloaf' danced around inside my head and laughed at me. What's wrong with us they said, we're with the in-set at Annabel's. We're all that's trendy and we're the ones to be seen with. You can't criticise us; we're protected by the thought police.

As the tea party progressed, I closed my eyes and appealed to Morpheus for an exclusive realm of my own. A place where the words 'vegan meatloaf' are not just an oxymoron, but illegal. Morpheus granted my wish and transported me to a place where pink chinos, Nigels and silly food had never been invented; simply because they were too daft and we were all too busy doing something useful.

A picture slowly drifted into my mind which had always intrigued me. It
was called Stag at Bay by Edwin Landseer. The noble stag was cornered by three baying hounds and all seemed lost for the poor creature. Suddenly, the hounds stopped barking and were called to heel and the whole threatening nature of the image altered.

'I did warn passengers before we set off from King's Cross,' said Derek
triumphantly. 'These tickets are only valid for the 16.25 and this is
the 17.05.'

Derek stabbed his stylus gleefully into a gismo and several feet of ticket roll disgorged towards the floor.

'Right gentlemen, three surcharges at standard fare come to a total of one hundred and five pounds exactly. Will it be cash or card?'

The chastened hounds slumped out of shot, the stag trotted majestically off into the heather and the train slid gracefully on into the night.