Last week, mentioned problems trying to order cup of British Rail tea.

Firstly, from up-market cafe which served Madagascan Nutmeg, Rwandan Mango and various other previously unheard of types of tea; secondly, on train where employees are forbidden to mention bad old days of BR, even in buffet.

No doubt new buffet franchise-holders think their tea a marked improvement on British Rail and have priced it accordingly at a very steep £1 - but passengers appear to be missing the tea and all the other notorious BR fare.

I know this because I was staring out of the window on my way to work when middle-aged, suited, briefcased type got on at Haywards Heath and asked: "Are you the British Rail tea one?"

Initially thought he may have mistaken me for someone who had committed, and been wrongly imprisoned for, some crime to do with British Rail tea but soon realised he simply meant: "Are you the one that was going on rather tediously about British Rail tea?"

"Thought so," he said, fumbling in his briefcase and producing a Thermos and two plastic cups. "Fancy a cup?" He passed me a measure of tepid, black, gut- stripping tea, with a dash of artificial milk. "Just like the real thing, isn't it?"

"Absolutely," I agreed, gagging slightly at the aftertaste of the genuinely, disgusting, cold bitter brew.

"Wife makes it," he went on. "Stews it up last thing at night and it reaches just the right level of tepidness the morning after.

"And she does bacon sandwiches too. Want one?" he said, fumbling in his briefcase again.

Had a brief look at two pieces of soggy, white toast, wrapped around three rashers of not-quite-cooked-enough bacon and a single, limp, slug-eaten piece of lettuce, on to which the congealed fat of the bacon had deposited itself, and decided against.

"No, thank you. But thanks for offering," I said. But the offer was not wasted.

"Where did you get that from?" asked woman opposite in a state of some excitement. "It looks just like a genuine British Rail bacon sandwich."

"Made it myself," he said proudly. "But you can't really taste the difference."

She accepted the proffered bite. "Delicious. You can't beat a British Rail sandwich." And, it wasn't long before the whole carriage was bemoaning the demise of the BR sandwich.

"I mean these Frenchified baguettes are all very well but it's not the same thing at all."

"Absolutely not at all."

"The French may be very efficient (or not) at running railways but we don't want them messing about with the food."

General murmurs of agreement, during which I hid behind paper, worried that throwaway comment about cup of tea had led to rising tide of Franco-phobic feelings.

Managed to stay hidden for rest of journey but, when we reached Victoria, a small, previously unnoticed, sandy- haired man said quietly to me: "I've got something for you." He pressed a small, foil-wrapped package into my hand before disappearing into the ticket barrier scum.

Was expecting another bacon sandwich but this was a variation on the theme: two bits of white sliced bread, into which the night before butter had soaked and sogged, between which were two identical half slices of processed cheese, two tiny rounds of under-ripe tomato and note which read "BR cheese and tomato - enjoy!"