Mightily aggrieved this week, readers. Sorry. Have tried to refrain from laying into the rail companies – in part because I have to travel with them every day to get to work, so prefer not to wind myself up into a negative mindset, and in part because they’re a soft target. Try to write about something more upbeat and positive, I thought when I started blogging. And that was five months ago so I’ve not done badly so far.

This week, though, can I have a moan, please? Sorry. I know your journey is as bad as mine and the last thing anyone wants is to read about other people’s problems – but you know some people get paid a lot of money to listen to other people’s problems, while others like hearing about bad things happening to someone else so they can feel better about their own lives, so read on and see if it’s for you.

The trouble is, my problem is dull. It isn’t anything juicy, the sort of thing you would take to a shrink. My husband hasn’t run off with one of his patients, my mother didn’t abandon me as a child, my best friend is still my best friend, and our neighbours haven’t kept us awake at night with their arguments (all right, the teenage girls did a couple of weeks back, but I’m sure we’ve retaliated in kind).

No. My problem is human error. Yup, humans make mistakes. Doesn’t matter how computerised and efficient our lives have become, truth is, once you get a human involved, you can be guaranteed inefficiency and error.

My error (I use the possessive adjective loosely) was to buy a month pass from the generally very helpful and approachable ladies at Hove ticket office. I bought it a day in advance so I wouldn’t have the stress of queueing and worrying about a/ missing the train and b/ holding up other people who might miss theirs.

It came to more than 400 quid. Wow, I thought, that’s gone up (I’ve had quite a bit of time off recently and it must be at least three months since I last bought a monthly season). I did ask the woman at the kiosk if that was indeed the correct price. (I’d added on two extra days to take me up to the Friday, so perhaps that was what had pushed it over the 400 mark. But no, that was only an extra 20 or so quid.) Hey, don’t whinge I thought, so I handed over my credit card. Job done.

It wasn’t till I was coming home that night and showed my pass that I noticed along the top in big letters, Travelcard Zones 1-6. Aha! That’s why it cost so much — they’d sold me the wrong ticket. (I’m one of those people who cycles at the other end, leaving my bike to the mercy of platform 8 at London Bridge overnight and at weekends. So far, so safe.) I’d had to come into Brighton the night before (late day at the office, then got stranded at East Croydon for over half an hour because someone had been "injured" further up the line), so of course there was nothing I could do that night. Next morning I trundled along to Hove, knowing that this time, by having to ask for a refund and get a new ticket, I would not only most likely miss my own train but also keep a good few people from catching theirs. Just the scenario I'd tried to avoid two days earlier.

As it says in the Bible, and so it came to pass. Got refund. Hardly worth it in the end as I’d had to pay full fare for the previous day. “If you’d brought it back yesterday we could have given you a full refund,” the lady told me sweetly. If only I hadn’t been stuck in the office, then stuck at East Croydon, believe me, I would have done, I felt like replying. Because she had to issue me with a new ticket, I had to pay for that one and wait for the paperwork to be processed to get the money back on the old one. Luckily, my Visa card flexes to the tune of nigh on £800.

Then, as a parting comment, she said: “We’re supposed to fine you £10 for not checking your ticket before you left the ticket office, but we’ll waive that on this occasion.”

And things had been going so well up to that point. Now, please, dear reader, tell me if that doesn’t seem a little on the outrageous side to you. You hand over a sizeable chunk of your hard-earned cash every month — to line the pockets of a few fat cats who own a railway company that to my mind should never have been privatised (don’t get me started on that one), you pay for a service that is at best adequate (not their fault, I assume, that I wasn’t home till gone midnight the night before, but on how many other occasions is it unequivocally their fault?) and then you get told that because of their inefficiency, which was only human error and was easily done and even though I had every right to be, I wasn’t in the slightest bit cross about it because these things happen — only to be told that I am to blame and I have to give them another ten pounds! For their mistake!

Sorry, reader, but that just seems all wrong to me. I haven’t been in touch with Southern about it — largely because I don’t have time (untrue, I don't have the patience) to go through 46 voicemail options before I get to speak to someone who is even remotely going to listen — but I feel I should, on my own behalf and yours. Not least to check that that is indeed the policy when their staff make mistakes, and also perhaps to ask how often they let the miscreant (in this case me) off. Speaking out about it in a blog (ranting, I suppose you’re thinking would be more accurate, and you’d be right) is a start. Right, I’m resolved to contact them.

Thanks for listening, I’m beginning to feel much better about it already. Hope you are too (at least your life’s not this bad, eh?).