I open my eyes and pretend to wake up. The old lady's eyes remain shut tight with embarrassment. When they see I am awake, the men look away, and sip at their cans, before breaking out into helpless laughter. I don't know how to act. I have no right of comeback. I have not been invited into their joke.

'What about her?' the most drunken of the three virtually shouts. 'What about that old one?'

This time, the second bloke tries his luck. He's not offered a punchline before, but now he's buoyed by the atmosphere and encouraged by his friend's excellence.

'Her? She's probably He pauses. '... an old ... one!'

I am not sure he's really understood the rules to this game. His friends pause, at which point I think they're probably OK, but then they laugh and laugh, and I look at the old lady, and I think, Just keep your eyes closed, these idiots will be getting off soon, please don't be insulted. She keeps her eyes shut, and it makes me sad.

And then we're at Finchley Road, and there are people waiting, and the carriage fills up quickly, and the men keep quiet. The old lady still has her eyes shut, and I want to tell her it's OK, that these guys have to keep quiet now, and they do. They keep quiet. Quiet, all the way back to Baker Street.

And as the train screams its way into the station, the old lady finally feels brave enough to open her eyes, and fake-yawn, and she gets her things together, and the doors open.

'Mate,' says one of the men, squeezing through the crowd. 'Can you settle a bet for us?'

'Yup,' I say.

'What do you do for a living?'

His mates are standing behind him, giggling. I take a deep breath and look the old lady in the eye and smile. She smiles back, unsurely. I look at the men again.

'I am a librarian,' I say, and they raise their eyebrows. 'But on weekends, I work as a high-class male escort.'

They screech and high-five, and run from the train, whooping. They have not understood the revenge the old lady and I are sharing.

I look at her. She smiles. We have won.

TECHNOLOGY

Brrrrp. Brrrrp.

I am driving in my car when suddenly I hear a noise that's become far too familiar.

I look at the dashboard. Oh, no.

For the past several weeks, my technology has turned against me. My kettle broke. My Xbox gave up. For reasons I am yet to fathom, my Sky box now brings me regional programming instead of the advertised ones, and chooses news from the West Midlands. And my car decides to tap into the BlueTooth network in order to constantly and inexplicably call my friend William.