Have not seen businessman from Burgess Hill again, since embarrassing incident last week when I caught him (I think) in clandestine meeting with Ms Whiplash.

Having overheard Ms Whiplash's conversation on mobile phone during which she confirmed she was with a client, I hastily muttered need to get drink from buffet and left them to whatever it was they were planning for the rest of the return journey.

The black leather whip, on seat beside her, obviously had something to do with said plans and left self wondering why man like Burgess Hill (outwardly dull and respectable appearance), was prepared to risk dull and respectable reputation by indulging in flagellation session in pretty public place.

This week, had more cause to wonder at how "generally reserved for privacy of own home" pastimes are gradually establishing themselves as "perfectly acceptable to enjoy, while in the presence of 50 other passengers in carriage, making way to and from work" pastimes.

Have always wondered why they bother selling pornographic magazines at station newsagents. Had thought purchasers wouldn't dream of actually reading them, under the bright neon lights of a railway carriage, in full view of everybody else.

It's one thing to have the person opposite trying to catch the weather forecast on the back of your copy of The Times, but quite another for them to lean closer to catch a glimpse of Amanita The Desert Beauty revealing all.

Wrongly, presumed that most of the top shelf literature sold on station concourse was quickly wrapped in plastic bag and buried at bottom of brief case, until it could be safely unwrapped in the darkened atmosphere of purchaser's home.

Today, however, I happened to sit opposite a man who had not only not bothered to hide his newly purchased copy of Playboy in a paper bag in the bottom of his briefcase but had it opened and was studying it intently and with obvious enjoyment.

From my position, I could only guess at what he was looking at, though the front cover of the magazine showed a raven-haired woman with protruding buttocks and promised details of threesomes, redheads and minor celebrities.

Every now and then the man, who had a permanent half smile on his face, would turn a page whereupon the smile would broaden and his interest in the magazine deepen. Having caught Burgess Hill with Ms Whiplash last week, I suppose I shouldn't have been surprised by the man's open and obvious enjoyment of such literature and probably wouldn't have been - were it not for the fact that the reader was not another business man or sporty Sun reader but. . . a Rabbi!

Jewish friend told me later that this should not have surprised me, as Judaism promotes the joys of sex for pleasure, unlike other religions which prefer to sweep it under the carpet - with all those other unmentionables.

She was surprised however, when I told her that, having finished the magazine before arriving at his station, the Rabbi left it on his seat - presumably so it could be enjoyed by someone else - and the someone else who chose to pick it up and take it home with him was a tweedy looking man, wearing a dog collar. . .

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