The 15:36 from London Victoria pulls out of East Croydon, leaving the metropolitan grime and discontent behind as it accelerates towards the fresh air of the South Downs and the bohemian idyll of Brighton beyond.

And never have I been so happy to see the grey, unruly suburbs of our capital whiz by from the comfort of my window seat. Having just pitched a new quiz idea (Are You Smarter Than A Cadaver?) to a gaggle of icy TV execs in Soho, I needed a hit of Brighton’s warm chilled out liberal vibe.

The Friday afternoon train is the usual heady mix of gagging-for-it hen parties, dayglo-attired foreign students and aftershave-heavy teen boys preparing for a night of drinking, fighting and, ultimately, branding the famed cobbled lanes of Brighthelm with omelettes of adolescent vomit.

Haywards Heath. Having escaped London just before the rush hour, the train is thankfully light on commuter-drones, that ashen-faced army who drown out the death-rattle of their corporate-raped souls with Coldplay-polluted iPods and laptops showing Harry Potter DVDs.

For a creative soul like me, the nine-to-five just wouldn’t cut the mustard. Like many fellow Brightonians, I’m an artist, a free spirit who can’t function within a prison of spreadsheets and Powerpoint presentations. Blue-sky thinking? Not for me, brother. I’ll paint the sky whatever colour I like. Pushing the envelope? I’ll push whatever stationery I choose, sister (I might even pull it).

Wivelsfield whizzes by and I spot a young fallow deer ambling along the trackside. You should try pulling yourself away from your iPhones and Heat magazines and instead, look out the window at nature. You never know what you might see – a buzzard swoop out of the sky and taking a rabbit or maybe a man taking a dump in the car park next to Gatwick.

Burgess Hill. Nearly home now. Soon, I’ll be back in Hanover, chomping on some organic tofu on the veranda with Jocasta and the twins Lex and Nimsie. Jocasta’s yoga business is thriving (her gifted hands will make your chakras sing), a fact I’m utterly delighted about. For years my media manipulations had won the bread for our famille, while Jocasta, like a clog-wearing, female Christopher Columbus, had taken a dangerous and admittedly long voyage of self-exploration. However, a year ago, her spiritual quest finally reached its destination (East Grinstead community centre, after her final Handi Shandi class) and now she was ready to make the step up from metaphysical expert to fiscal one.

Hassocks. A quiet moment of reflection on the forgotten street-children of north-east Brazil is punctured by the metallic thud of the buffet trolley. A twenty-something Eastern European hostess sighs as she awkwardly directs the noisy cart between passengers’ stray legs and protruding luggage. Maybe she was in a war, I think to myself, maybe her home was bombed and she came to the south coast of England to escape the pain and rediscover the joy of living. Maybe all that explained her hatchet face and bad manners. I decline her invitation to buy an over-priced sandwich and tar-tasting coffee (it’s organic fair-trade or nothing for me) and she continues her solemn procession up the carriage, proffering crisps and lager to the uneducated masses aboard.

Preston Park. I can see the seagulls now and almost touch the liberalism. I get a text from my gay black mate Marcus B. An ale or too later in the Basketmakers to discuss our new web-based juggling project? Can do.

As the train slowly connects with the Brighton station buffers like an OAP easing into a comfy chair, I get a call from the TV company. They won’t be proceeding any further with my game show (something about “bad taste” and “plagiarism”). Their line-towing, bland and unimaginative loss, I think to myself. Anyway, I’m home now. I’m in Brighton and nothing can bring me down.