In theory, one of the joys of commuting is that you have two hours a day in which you can do pretty much as you please.

In practice, the fact that you are in a public place makes this impractical. No one wants to watch you pick your toe nails (though salesman from Burgess Hill has been known to squeeze a few pimples in public) or munch your way through bars of Fruit and Nut, while picking out the raisins.

Even reading matter (and what can you do on a train if not read) is restricted by the fact that you don't want fellow travellers assuming you're the sort of person for whom an early night with a good book means racing through the pages of the latest Danielle Steel.

There are limits to what can be read in public, John Grisham's fine, Joanna Trollope is just about acceptable, Danielle Steel, Pat Booth, Shirley Conran, definitely not. Of course, I don't believe half the people

I travel to work with every day ever actually finish the high brow nonsense they pretend they are getting to grips with. But at least they appear to the rest of the carriage to be well educated and well read.

This afternoon, editor left early for doctor's appointment. So rest of magazine staff took opportunity to head home. Since I was getting the 3.08 before the gamut of usual commuters set off, I took the opportunity to take with me a pile of light reads, which had been sent to features editor for possible reviews.

She, having deemed them unworthy of intelligent women's magazine, had assigned them to corner of office with admonishing: "If anyone is really desperate feel free to take them."

I was just getting into A Patchwork Planet (hopelessly shambolic man is nevertheless irresistible) and was looking forward to settling down on the sofa with a large box of chocolates and The Solace of Sin (woman buying house finds its mysterious owner intriguing), when blond athletic man from Hassocks unexpectedly ambled on to train and took up seat opposite.

There was no time in which to whisk away family-size pack of Maltesers I was already halfway through, or to hide the shambolic man story inside the covers of something heavier. So, I simply had to endure a haughtily-condescending, questioning look as Hassocks read to himself the back cover blurb about modern romance and took out his own copy of Gallileo's Daughter.

Could at least comfort myself with thought that although Hassocks no doubt thought me to be shallow individual, wasting my life with trash romantic fiction, I had at least allowed Serena from accounts to take home story of the Beckham/Adams romance.

Could think of nothing to do but continue reading Patchwork Planet and was becoming rather struck with the idea of the hopeless shambolic man myself, when Hassocks began gathering his things as the train neared Haywards Heath where he had to change for his onward journey home.

"I trust they'll live happily ever after?" he said. Then, he made for the door but was forced to retrace his steps and swallow his words, when he dropped the copy of Loaded which he'd obviously bought for the journey, but refrained from reading in the presence of someone who knew him.

Converted for the new archive on 30 June 2000. Some images and formatting may have been lost in the conversion.