NEARLY fulfilled a lifetime's

ambition this week . . . pulling the emergency cord. Nobody ever does this. Nobody dares.

Nearly everyone I know admits to being as terrified as me of the minute stickers warning you that anyone who pulls the emergency cord without good reason faces a £50 penalty fine.

On some trains they've got round to replacing the stickers with ones advertising newer, bigger fines - but even the ones that threaten a mere 50 quid are enough to leave me in fear of ever pulling that tiny red string.

The trouble with said cords and their threateningly worded warnings is they make you think that nothing could possibly be important enough to warrant risking reaching up and going for it.

It's a bit like making 999 calls. While the emergency operators are

apparently inundated with calls from people who've forgotten their keys or left their back gate open while on

holiday, everyone I know thinks it

probably best just to call the local police station when there is an armed intruder in their sitting room.

(Although, my mother assures me I was always dialling 999 as a toddler and no one ever threatened a £50 fine - even after the police sent a patrol car round to our house believing my cries of "mummy, mummy, mummy!" might mean mother had some sort of

accident. She was in fact just hanging out the washing . . .)

Anyway, back to this week and the near thing with the emergency cord. Was sitting next to asthmatic colleague from work on 8.18 train to London, when I made what must have been a particularly funny remark. Colleague laughed so much that it triggered an asthma attack. He reached for his inhaler and nodded in response my rather pathetic "Are you OK?", before disappearing down the corridor,

inhaling away, to continue his

wheezing in the privacy of the toilet.

This is a very British thing to do. Apparently, more British people die of choking than any other

nationality, because they like to choke in private. Whereas the Italians, for example, stay put at the table if a bit of pasta gets stuck in their throat. They are quickly surrounded by family and friends who, as they splutter "I'm dying, I'm dying!", helpfully try to dislodge rigatoni or penne or whatever it is that is choking them.

Colleague is decidedly lacking in Latin blood and therefore absented himself from presence of others. For all I knew, he was drawing his last breath behind the locked lavatory doors. My slight unease at this possibility was compounded after about ten minutes when the man sitting opposite leant forward and asked: "Do you think your friend is all right?"

"Well," I replied sympathetically. "He's not really my friend. He just works in the same building, but I

suppose I should go and check on him all the same . . ."

Concerned man agreed and,

obviously thinking me callous and uncaring, offered to come with me and shout colleague's name outside engaged sign for at least five minutes.

Concerned then asked if I thought we should pull the emergency cord. At this point colleague emerged from behind door, his breathing back to normal, just in time to hear me say: "Well, I'm not sure if it's worth risking a fine . . ."

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