I don’t have a ticket and I have very little money, but I don’t really care because what’s the worst that can happen? They take me to prison? Brilliant. More realistically, they give me a penalty fare and I don’t have to pay it because I’m dead.

I find a seat by the window and stare out, listening to ‘Common People’. I can see the grey line of the sea horizon in the distance, beyond the roofs of the houses. The man with the huffing breath sits next to me, and gives me a little nod, but I can tell that he doesn’t want to speak. He gets out a book, and that reminds me, so I get mine out too. He’s reading Bridget Jones’s Diary: he laughs from time to time and tries to pretend he’s not.

Twenty minutes later we’re in Exeter, and everyone disperses. I join the crowd that masses over to platform four, to wait for the London train. If I see a ticket inspector I’ll go and hide in the loo. If it comes to it I probably have enough money to buy a ticket from wherever the last station was.

I don’t know why I’m worrying.

Actually why am I? I’ve never worried about not buying a ticket before, and I’ve talked my way out of a penalty fare loads of times. You just make them laugh and they let you off. The trouble is, I can’t imagine being able to do that any more. I used to be funny and now I’m not.

I find an aisle seat at the end of a carriage, within easy reach of the loo in case I have to hide. I’m next to a woman who’s knitting a pale pink thing. She looks maybe about fifty, and has a nice face, a white fluffy jumper and expensive-looking hair. When I sit down, she gives me a little smile, but mainly we ignore each other, like you do.

The train starts moving and just like that I’m on my way to London, with no plan except to be as far from home as I can get by four o’clock, and specifically to be nowhere near Beachview at quarter past five. We pass through Tiverton Parkway and more people get on, but quite a lot of them have to stand. I look at them, ready to give up my seat if there’s anyone who particularly needs it, but everyone I can see is a young-enough man in a suit, and I can’t be arsed to get up for them.

In a minute we’ll be out of Devon.