I turn slightly, to look at him. He is engrossed in his order. It looks to be quite a big one. I am doomed to listen to a grumpy man reading out quantities of random things for two hours. This is not fair. I nearly cried when that other bloke read out his nineteenth sign.

'Three chicken sandwiches ... sliced lemon ... six vodkas ...'

I try to ignore him. I try to go back to my book.

'A hundred plastic cups ... yeah, a hundred ... plastic ... cups ...'

I restart the sentence I'd been reading.

'Plastic ones. Yeah. A hundred of them.'

I sigh loudly, and restart it once more. I must have patience.

Two anti-bacterial cups. ANTI-BACTERIAL. Thank you.'

We find a tunnel. There is silence. Darkness. Peace. It is shortlived.

'Six lagers. Six bitters. One box of gloves.'

I realise I am not going to get any reading done. I put my book down again and shut my eyes, tight. I am suddenly very annoyed with this man.

'Eight ginger ale. Eight coke. Brrrread.'

Why did he say 'bread' in that annoying way? Who says 'bread' like that?

'Pretzels. Pretzels. Pretzels.'

He did not need to say that three times. Someone should shove a pretzel in his face next time he does that. That'd teach him.

Suddenly my seat rocks back and forth wildly. He is using it to steady himself as he stands, list in hand, and he continues to read. I look around the carriage. Why is he doing this here? Why is he doing this next to me? Surely he could have done this literally anywhere else? Or in his kitchen! Why do these orders need to be made six inches from my head?

I scowl at him as he wanders up and down my section of the carriage, but he does not see me, until I notice his eyes flicker my way, and I instinctively hide my scowl and change it for a look of polite indifference.

Why did I do that? I think to myself, silently fuming. Why do I look polite and indifferent? I scowled because I wanted him to see me scowl! I wanted him to understand! He is invading my personal, paid-for space with his loud and pointless list of nonsense!'

He turns his back on me and continues with the order.

I should say something, I think. I should not fear my scowl, but embrace it. Build on it. Use it. This man is in the wrong. He must be told! How else will he learn? I must vanquish my Britishness and replace it with something more forthright and European! I will not simply forgive him. I will sternly instruct him to be quiet, or to go somewhere else, and he will do so, shamefaced, and doffing his cap. What am I afraid of?