Just Jane

Jane is trapped in a train carriage, enduring two of her pet hates...

I am sitting on a train to London, opposite my son. I am off to peruse exhibits in the Saatchi Gallery and have lunch with my lovely friends, Lynne and Lesley. He is headed for a tour of the Fullers Brewery with his mate Connor, and the downing of more pints than I care to contemplate.

The bloke next to me is sniffing.

Tom raises his eyebrows. He was brought up under a policy of zero-tolerance to an un-blown nose (I was 35 before my mother stopped checking I had a clean paper handkerchief, and I saw no reason to break with tradition), and he knows what the snuffling will be doing to me.

“Shall I offer him a tissue?” I type into my phone, as the snorting goes on. “Or just ask him to shut the hell up?”

As I press Send, the bloke stands up, sighs heavily and moves off.

I clap a hand to my mouth. “Do you think he read it over my shoulder?” I ask.