A strange thing happened on the way home on Friday night. First I wasn’t allowed on the 1917, because I’d bought a cheapie internet single for the 2017 and, not knowing what time I’d get out of the office, I’d plumped for a late one. All the tickets for all the trains are the same price, but nontransferable.

So with an hour to kill, I bought myself a miniature of sauvignon blanc from the very nice cheese and wine shop (cheaper than Whistlestop and you get to sample some cheese for free) and a pack of Golden Virginia from WH Smiths, the only place that sells baccy that I could see on the concourse. (I could be wrong here, but also, I don’t want to plug them too much, because have you seen the price of their crisps? No less than 93p for McCoys, although in fairness you could get two for a quid... Except it isn’t fair, as I didn’t want two, and besides, you start thinking, no wonder we're all fat.) I went to the park opposite the bus entrance, found a bench in the sun and smoked, drank, read the Standard and generally began to wind down for the weekend. (Could’ve got wound up by not being let on an earlier train, chose not to.)

However, I digress.

Back to the story. Train not there, I’m told, when I went to get the 2017; running late, I’m told. Oh, train there all along, I find out at 2016 and a half. Some young fella (I refer you to my previous blog about the ability to accurately gauge someone’s age when you get to be as old as me) had something going on on the bit past the barriers, no idea what but he obviously had a ticket or he wouldn’t have made it that far (and a ticket for the right train, as my earlier experience proves you can’t get on with the wrong one).

Now maybe I attract drama, but I sat opposite him once we'd boarded. First he was fielding calls saying ‘Call me back in 5’, the next thing his phone ran out of juice. Then suddenly about four policemen bounded on and hoicked him out of his seat and off the train. Two more came on and ripped the seats up (I pointed out where he’d been sitting after they’d ripped up the wrong one — neither of which they put back properly, bloomin' vandals). Then they scoured the loo, and then jumped off the train. I looked out to see a bit of manhandling going on and my fellow passengers and I sat while the situation unfolded. Although there was no situation, as the next thing we knew was a female police officer escorted the kid back on the train.

‘Don’t have a go at him, he’s done nothing wrong,’ she said to us before jumping off herself and the train pulled out. It all happened quite quickly, so we weren’t that late leaving, so I can't imagine anybody was of a mind to have a go. Next thing, though, the young kid dissolves in tears, and as his nearest companion, I moved across and sat next to him and tried to cheer him up.

Poor boy, I have no idea what had gone on, what they suspected him of, or if anyone had accused him of something, but he was a decent kid and was mortified at the way he'd been treated when he'd done nothing wrong. (I know he was decent, as I called his mum to let her know he was ok and could she pick him up at the other end, and she texted me the next day to say thank you, how nice was that?) It turns out some of his mates had taken him for a few after-work bevvies and he was a bit pickled. Hey, pot and kettle — I’d just had a third of a bottle of wine, so I was the last person to be judging him.

It does make you wonder though. Case of mistaken identity? Had he stumbled into someone and upset them? Who knows. That’s the thing with all these situations, you never find out the full story.

I’m just glad I could be of help. Sure if I hadn’t done something, another commuter would — we’re not as hardbitten as some make us out to be. And sure our friend won’t be getting quite so hammered next Friday (although there’s a bottle of sauvignon blanc with my name on it in the cheese shop).