I really can't thank Gatwick enough

I’m afforded a particular pleasure by the fact that the 7.42 doesn’t stop at Gatwick. I have nothing against Gatwick per se, but it’s the baggage it pulls along in its wake that I have an issue with. And on the odd occasion that I do avail myself of the services of a Southern train that actually serves a Gatwick purpose (unlike the 7.42 which is a Gatwick Express by livery alone), I struggle with the repercussions. It’s like finding yourself in the middle of a fruit & veg market when all you were after was milk from the corner shop. And, if I’m honest, it’s an affront to the well-oiled wheels of commuterdom.

It’s not that we regulars don’t come with our own baggage, but we wield this with grace and expertise – and of course we’re unlikely to have the contents of our wardrobe with us. In my case, I have one bag that has been specifically chosen for its practical qualities and which sits squarely on my knee, providing a kind of extension to the table. And then there’s my neat little rucksack which sits alert and upright at my feet. And of course the rest of my – emotional – baggage I keep to myself. And, unlike those Gatwick passengers, I refrain from showing interest in what’s around me.

But, just sometimes, the tables are turned, and I board a train which is a Gatwick Express through and through; a train whose primary purpose is to serve those leaving the country, but which, in its new extended format, is on its way to Brighton and will drop me at Haywards Heath. And then the pleasure of the Gatwick connection is all mine. We speed out of London with barely a glance at East Croydon, and it’s this ability to make so light of the suburbs – something Southern could never do – for which, if I’m honest, I really can’t thank Gatwick enough.