Pass muster

Tomorrow I’m off to Scotland by train. There’s little to liken such a journey to my usual ups and downs from Lewes to London and back. But of course for the Lewes to London leg of this self-indulgent (as opposed to work-related) journey, I don’t need a ticket, and this fact is a source of unlikely, unexpected pleasure. My season ticket – such a sensible, necessary purchase – covers the cost as if it’s doing me a favour. And it makes me feel so much better value than my non-season-ticket-holding husband.

But there are other satisfactions to be gained from being the holder of such a thing. My particular trajectory through the ins and outs of railway property means that most of the time it sits idle in my bag, but if a conductor comes along it’s good – even gratifying – to be ready and waiting to be proved innocent

I wonder, then, if as a law-abiding citizen (the default setting for most of us, I presume) it’s one of the few occasions in fully fledged adult life when our obedience gets a chance to rear its bowed head. We get to prove we’re doing the right thing; and for once we’re not just quietly not causing trouble.

Passport control is, perhaps, an even better moment for us obedient types. There they look you up and down properly – a reminder that my season ticket photo is, I feel, worth rather more attention than it’s getting. And what about those two perfectly matched numbers on the two complementary parts of my ticket? Shouldn’t they be congratulated for their correctness on a more regular basis?

Still, at a time of life when the reward-fuelled experience of childhood is unlikely to come our way again, these meetings with conductors are junctures to be grasped. The approaching footfall and thank-you-thank-you rustle of the conductor as he passes down the train is our chance – one of our very few – to pass muster.

Two's grace

Most days, my commuting moments pile up one upon the other, each moment coming to rest neatly upon its predecessor – which is just how it should be. I’m not looking for excitement or stimulation in this part of my life.

But yesterday my moments broke the mould. I was coming to London Bridge from a – for me – unusual direction. And it dawned on me that there was no way I was going to catch my train. My comfort zone these days has expanded to the point where I can cut it fine and enjoy the challenge, but this was knife-edge fine, and I was in another zone completely. And so I relaxed: far better to miss the train by five solid minutes than actually see it pulling out.

But then – just when I didn’t require it – the must-catch-that-train instinct clicked in. And back came the adrenaline rush. I legged it through the convolutions of the London Bridge tube/train interchange, seamlessly inserted my season ticket into the slot and out again, got my body through the barrier and arrived at the train doors... And, yes, I did get on that train, slithering through the closing doors in a way that I wouldn’t repeat, wouldn’t recommend and haven’t relived – until now.

I basked in the glow of having made it. But it wasn’t just the pleasure of having caught the train that did it for me, but also the pleasure of not having to live through the dark despair of being left on the platform. There would have been a despondent, frustrated me to contend with – and thoughts of just how good life would have been if only I’d been on that train (as indeed it was for the real me already on its way to Lewes), of how all life’s problems would have melted away (as indeed they had, for now at least). And no doubt I would have cursed the punctuality of the service. Oh for a train that you could rely on to give you the courtesy of a minute or two’s grace.