I should come clean. My husband is an osteopath. It’s a bit like a psychopath, only rather more positive. Path comes from the Greek meaning disease, or feeling (and osteo, meaning bones). The difference being he feels other people’s pain rather than his own. And then sorts it out. (Whereas psychopaths, on the other hand, tend not to sort out your pain or theirs — but then, they’re not someone you generally take your troubles to anyway.) There are times when the husband feels his own pain too, I’m sure, but they seem to be few, because I don’t see too many telltale signs. (The joy of men, no?)

I have terrible posture, and all I have to do is look around at my fellow commuters to realise that I am not alone. Bent awkwardly over laptops, head at an angle with your mobile in the crook of your neck, or squished into a corner trying to find a comfy position so you can have a snooze — come on, you know who you are. (My husband is already awaiting the onset of aches and pains from the new iPad — it’s not like a laptop and has no angled screen, so you’ll either be bending at the wrists if it’s propped up in front of you, or your back is going to get it with it flat on your lap.)

Heaven knows, we all need an osteopath (probably less so the psycho version), because we’re all at the mercy of designers of train seats — when we’re lucky to sit on one, that is — and the marketers, of course, who deem it more efficient (read profitable) to cram us all in to trains that don’t have enough seats per paying customers.

My way of maximising this “opportunity” is to do some Pilates exercises. I try to overcome my discomfort — and silence the psychopath within — and do some stretching instead. Nobody knows I’m doing it. Nobody sees me, under my thick coat, zipping up my front, pulling navel into spine, turning on the headlamps on my hips, connecting my ribs to my hips and pulling my shoulders away from my ears, all the while crammed into a small space with a large number of people. Instead of getting demoralised, feeling ripped off, and joining the I Hate First Capital Connect site on Facebook, I’m channelling what could be a negative experience and another hellish journey home into something positive.

I admit, it doesn’t always work. A lot of the time I am silently seething and ready to let my inner psycho loose. But when it does work, I feel quite proud that I’ve managed to rise above my hideous reality and reach a higher plane of wellbeing. This isn’t preaching, this is a quiet revolution. After all, who likes being forced to sit in seats that aren’t comfortable next to people who are too large to fit into one? (Come on, I’m not the only one who’s glad this isn’t a potential onset of DVT situation, even if it lasts the entire London-to-Brighton journey.) And come to think of it, maybe those marketers are trying to tell us something, that we’ll all have better posture if we stand for an hour…No, I’m not convinced, either.

And if Pilates stretches don’t work — and you’ve tried yoga, and meditation — then you might as well go back to bending over a laptop or leaning your head against the window at a funny angle. Whatever you do, don't let the psychopath within get the better of you. Better still, find yourself an osteopath, and my advice is, marry one.