"You've got the wrong train."
The Virgin train worker was insistent.
I'd got on at Stockport and the door had shut behind me.
"I can't open the door now..." she said. "It's automatic."
She looked a bit worried.
"This goes to Euston?" I asked. I had terrible visions of Reading, or something.
"That's right," she explained "but this goes the long way round. Would you like a coffee?"
I'm not bothered about spending an extra half hour on the train these days. Infact if they install wifi on the Pendolinos I might move in permanently and claim asylum or something.*
*Richard Branson paid me no money for this blog entry.