I took the 18:42 train from Sheffield Station. 

The train driver had a sense of humour.

He informed us that there was no first-class carriage – “only proletariat travel on this train” – and that we’d soon be arriving at Chesterfield, or “Chezzer” as he said he liked to call it. He encouraged us to speak up if we saw anything “dodgy or nefarious” (his words), and wished us a pleasant journey. 

A fellow traveller across the aisle was as amused as I was – although admitted he was a regular traveller and that he’d heard this particular driver’s patter many times before. He’d been expecting him, apparently, to refer to Sheffield as he usually did – “The People’s Republic of South Yorkshire.”

And do you know, after a long day that had begun for me at 04:50 on a very dark and wet morning, I rather appreciated the chirpy banter of my train driver, hidden to me as we rolled along the track – he in the driving seat and me sitting in my non-first-class carriage with a huge smile on my face. 

Sometimes it’s the little things …