Quiet, please.

'You simply must tell me when you're free, so we can pencil something in with Tim, Bonnie, ek-setter-ah, ek-setter-ah.'

This plummy, alkaline voice had already been getting on my tits since before I had even got on the train, such was her resonance down the platform. I thought I was safely ensconced in a separate carriage, but no such luck and this ridiculous wrapping up phase was driving me fairly homicidal.

I mean, who even says etcetera out loud? And if you are going to be so bold as to pronounce it in public, why would you not get it right, instead of trotting out obnoxiously false Latin and nauseam?

I am too embarrassed to speak on my phone in such a hushed public environment as to have everyone listening in - I seek gracious refuge in the arms of the quiet coach where I can. And what a marvellous conceit that is. The quiet buzz not of diligent industry but inappropriately cold air conditioning.

None of the usual wilds and screams in this oasis. Perhaps the occasional idiot who hasn't seen the sign, or thinks that their calls are OK. But sustained peer pressure has seen off the lager louts and babies and irritating wimmin arranging their cloying social lives over their handset. It has become a popular choice - even as I tap mouse-like into my phone there is a man who has crammed himself into the mid-carriage luggage rack, such is his desire for a life of calm.

Now it's all very well on this train, but just what do we do the rest of the time?