Want to know how to get seats all to yourself in a crowded train?

No, you don't have to be drunk, smelly or accompanied by an Irish wolfhound, though these all help.

What you need are children. In this country, children are a bit like laxative tablets. One won't usually do the trick but take two or three and you should definitely get results.

I was sitting on a train bound for London last week (half-term, remember?) when an agitated woman with three small, shrill girls got on board.

The carriage was already pretty full and across the way a sullen-looking man had spread himself and his belongings - shabby briefcase, newspapers, coffee, bacon roll - over the table separating him from the vacant seats opposite.

Several people had glanced at those vacant places but, possibly deterred by Mr Messy's scowling face, had looked for seats elsewhere.

The woman with the noisy trio (I assumed she was their mother and they were sisters) was obviously too flustered to notice Mr Messy's antisocial demeanour.

"These seats aren't taken, are they?" she asked and, without waiting for an answer, shepherded her lambs into the ogre's den, then sat down next to me.

I cursed, inwardly of course.

Across the way the three little horrors, aged from about six to nine, squabbled. The youngest, who was sitting across the aisle from her mother, started flicking drops from a soft drink carton at one of the older girls.

"I want to sit over there by the window," she whined.

"Well you can't, you've got to sit near mummy, so there," said the biggest girl.

This response elicited a sharp kick from the youngest sibling.

"Mummeeeee!" shrieked the elder girl. "She's kicking me again."

The girls' mother grabbed the smallest girl by the arm. "Stop that or we'll go home," she hissed. Oh, please, I thought.

I looked across at Mr Messy, expecting to see a volcano of rage about to erupt. Instead I saw a man panic-stricken.

Sweat had broken out on his forehead, his eyes stared in desperation and his mouth hung open. The ogre had been cornered, and conquered, by the lambs.

Just as the train started to move out of the station, Mr Messy stumbled to his feet, grabbing at his belongings.

"Here," he said to the girls' mother, "you can have my seat. Take it please."

"Oh, dear," said mum as she joined her three darlings. "I think we've upset that poor man." Then all four giggled conspiratorially.

Their mother's presence made not the slightest bit of difference to the girls' behaviour, however. They quarrelled, kicked and elbowed each other all the way to London.

About five minutes from Victoria, the mother snapped, giving each of them a hard slap. It was a most satisfying sound.

A woman sitting opposite me disagreed, however. "I never had to smack any of mine," she said. "A few well-chosen words and you could always keep the peace."

I nodded, remembering an incident on a Brighton-to-London train some years ago when I had frogmarched my squabbling six-year-old son and one of his schoolfriends into the lavatory.

Holding their heads over the lavatory pan I had said: "If there's any more fighting I shall throw you both down the toilet and flush you away. Understand?" They were petrified for the remainder of the journey.

"Oh, I do agree," I said to the woman opposite. "There's really no need to hit a child. A few well-chosen words will get results every time."