Was just thinking I might have to leave Brighton and move to Milton Keynes, when we were plunged into total darkness - well near total anyway.

There was a faint glow, emitting from the mobile phones and laptops of a few other passengers.

Had travelled to interview veteran Jazz queen at her beautiful country home, just outside Milton Keynes (Milton Keynes was not here when they bought it).

And, after the usual stops and stuttering on journey from Brighton, was pleasantly impressed by spacious, air conditioned, train; on which everyone gets a table to sit at, the ticket inspectors don't insist you go back to your seat and get your ticket when you're on your way to the loo, the other passengers are friendly and you get there on time.

Return journey to Euston was going just as well. I'd run on to the platform and on to train, without properly checking where it was heading.

"Is this the London train?" I'd asked several smiling, receptive faces.

They assured me it was. "I know my ticket's in here somewhere . . . " I'd told the ticket inspector who replied: "OK then. You'll need it at the other end, but don't worry about it now . . . " and was looking up and smiling every now and then at the good looking man sitting opposite - and he was smiling back.

"A nice little house in the country outside Milton Keynes and a quick 40 minute journey to work might not be such a bad thing," was thinking to self, when the lights went out.

Immediately, the good-looking man opposite jumped up and groped his way to the end of the carriage and out into the corridor, where he appeared to do something and the lights came back on again.

He returned and they went off again. So he went out, did whatever it was he did to make them come back on again and came back again. Which gave me an opportunity to move beyond the looking up and smiling stage of our relationship and onto exchanging words.

"How did you do that?" I asked, impressed by his skill in - well in turning the lights on, I suppose.

"Oh, there's a switch in the corridor that you flick which gets them back on again," he said, nonchalantly.

"Well thank goodness you did." I said, not wishing to leave it at that. "But how did you know what to do?"

"It happens quite often," he replied. "And sometimes we've sat in the dark for 20 minutes before the guard gets round to doing something about it. So, I asked him what he did and he showed me."

"Perhaps you better show me," I suggested, suggestively.

"Do you get this train often?" he asked.

"My first time," I had to admit. "But I'm very impressed by it. I usually travel from Brighton and the whole commuting experience is not quite up to this . . . "

"I love Brighton" he said. "I often come down at weekends and go canoeing."

Now we were getting somewhere; good looking, sporty and good at fixing light bulbs to boot. But unfortunately he got off at Watford Junction.

"If the lights go out again," he said, as he left. "You just flick the switch above the fire extinguisher outside the toilet."

"OK," I said. "Nice meeting you." And after he'd gone I went to look at the switch in question. It made me feel nearer to him somehow, and had a big sign next to it, in red letters, which said: "DO NOT TOUCH THIS SWITCH. YOU RISK ELECTROCUTION."

So he was brave as well - or foolhardy perhaps . . .