Have committed a crime so serious I may never be allowed on board another train again.

Crime not of smoking in toilets or travelling without a ticket or pulling the emergency cord - in fact, strictly speaking, it was not really a crime at all.

But, as far as my fellow passengers are concerned, it was a crime against commuting etiquette, which must be adhered to at all times if everyone is to continue getting along nicely, day in day out, for what may well turn out to be the rest of our working lives - I complained.

It's perfectly OK to complain in writing, and it's absolutely fine to moan to other travellers about the dreadful state of the railways.

But, it is not really acceptable to complain to a figure of authority, such as a conductor or guard, audibly and within earshot of everyone else. That is embarrassing.

The problem was that last week nearly every single train I took to and from work had, for some reason or other, been at least 15 minutes late, making me late for work, late back home and generally irritable.

On one occasion arrived at the station, after making myself unpopular at work by insisting I leave on time to catch preferred train, running from Oxford Circus to Victoria, as the underground was closed, and making it just in time for the train, only to find the platform closed and a massive herd of familiar faces waiting and mumbling in a comradely fashion: "What is it this time?"

Eventually a train arrived and a cheery voice apologised for "any inconvenience caused" and about a million people tried to cram into the train.

Once on board the train proceeded extremely slowly down the line and then, having got rid of a few thousand people, at places like East Croydon and Gatwick Airport, decided to stop in the middle of nowhere and wait for a bit.

Despite the fact that we had been given no information about reason for late arrival of train and its slow progress (it was now running 45 minutes late) the ticket inspector decided this was as a good a time as any to do his rounds.

I could hear him walking down the carriage asking for tickets, which everyone gave him without so much as a: "Do you know what the hell is going on?" until he reached me.

I, worn down by the cumulative effect of so many delays, decided to challenge him.

"Do you know why this train is so late?" I asked, fairly politely.

To which the inspector simply replied: "May I see your ticket please?"

Thinking he had not heard my question, I asked again: "Why is this train so late and when is it likely to reach Brighton?"

To which he replied: "Your ticket, Miss." Well, if he's going to be like that, I thought ...

"I'll show you my ticket, when you tell me what's going on," I said.

"It is an offence to travel without a ticket," he replied, as fellow passengers began to hide behind the collars of the coats and pages of their newspapers in embarrassment.

"I am not travelling without a ticket," I told him. "I'm just refusing to show it to you until you tell me what is going on with this train."

"Well if you do not show it to me, I shall call the police to stop you when we reach Brighton."

"Well while you're at it, perhaps you could call someone who knows what's going on with this train and when we are likely to get home," I replied, sticking to my guns.

Eventually the guard moved on, without having seen my ticket. There were no police waiting for me at Brighton, but since then no one has spoken to me.

In fact, when they see me coming they still reach for their papers, so as to avoid catching my eye - apart from one middle-aged man who mutters under his breath sentences containing the words women and kitchen.

The only way out of this, as far as I can see, is to stop commuting and become ...?