The joys of late night rail travel will never cease to amaze and baffle me. The almost magical scything through the landscape, this fallen lighthouse hurtling ever onwards to home and away. The animal instincts of travellers for ever protecting their temporary burrow, safe behind their seat walls from the horrors of eye contact and interaction with strangers. Anxious for the arrival of that knight of the wheeled rocket, the ticket inspector. Imbued with the dark arts, to diffuse conflict, protect the innocent and spirit away the safely stored ticket from it's last resting place to some Area 51 of luggage interior (and in extreme cases, exterior) pocket, never before encountered in years of use and since that first exploration determining suitability and practicality, true capacity and robustness.