Spent most of the Bank Holiday weekend stuck on a train.

Dismal turn of events caused by visit from four-year-old nephew who, although brought up in London, a city which boasts several major train terminals, a handful of overground lines and a vast network of underground trains, is generally transported by isolated, air conditioned people carrier and still regards travelling by train as extra-special treat.

Nephew and his parents arrived in Brighton, frustrated and late, after spending several hours sitting in traffic jams. After gratefully accepting drinks and retiring to garden, they announced: "Max would really like to go on a train. We thought perhaps you might like to take him for a tiny ride?"

Resisted temptation to point out that, had they left air-conditioned people carrier in London, they would have been here a lot sooner and Max would have enjoyed a whole fun-filled hour on a Connex Express. Instead, agreed to take him on a round trip from London Road to Brighton and back (a journey time of about four minutes).

As everyone was by now getting hungry, I put chicken in oven and told them I'd see them in about half an hour or so.

Bought return ticket from machine at London Road, caught train to Brighton, which would have turned round and gone back to London Road again had Max not heard announcement that train on next platform would be leaving for Southampton in three minutes. "Let's go on that train!" he shouted joyfully, and, although I explained we didn't have a ticket and it was going in the wrong direction, he looked so disappointed that I gave in, thinking we could change at Hove and come back.

But by the time we reached Hove, Max had decided that it would be better to go on to Worthing. "This is a fast train, so it doesn't stop at the little stations, just the big ones," he announced to the rest of the carriage, earning himself an indulgent smile from man sitting opposite.

"Where are you going to?" he asked him. On hearing the answer was Ford, he dazzled the rest of us with an impressive grasp of the rail network by announcing: "That's where you change to go to London . . ."

"No," I said. "Absolutely not. We have to go back." And then remembering the chicken, "or our lunch will be burnt."

"We don't have to go all the way to London," said Max. "We could change at Three Bridges and come back again. You could phone Mum and tell her."

Not very good at resisting pester power. So, found myself in callbox at Ford, explaining to Max's parents that we were on our way to Three Bridges and would probably be back in time for dinner - so could they please turn the chicken down.

At Three Bridges Max thought it might be better to go on to Gatwick, as we might be able to get a faster train back. Actually, we managed to pick up a very slow one and finally got back to Brighton tired (me) and elated (Max) in the early evening.

Then, for the first time on this rather bizarre day, I had to produce my ticket. "Where have you come from?" asked the inspector.

"London Road," I lied. "I've just been treating my nephew to a tiny train trip."

"We've been to Ford and Gatwick Airport too," says Max, unhelpfully.

The inspector issues me very expensive ticket and a fine, which Max's parents think is a reasonable price to pay for a day's entertainment.