‘Okay, there’s various options for Glasgow. Have you decided on a route?’

‘I haven’t, no.’

‘You’re going today?’

‘Yes, please.’

The man studied his computer.

‘I was wondering about first class,’ said Michael. ‘And ideally, I think I want “any route”. A bit of flexibility in case I change my mind.’

‘I can sell you an anytime ticket,’ replied the man slowly. ‘But it’s usually cheaper if you book a particular train. There’s not that much in it, actually. You’re travelling now?’

‘Yes, please. Today and tonight.’

The man peered harder at what must have been very small print.

‘All the cheap fares are advance fares, I’m afraid. You want the next service?’

‘If possible. Yes. That would be great.’

Why didn’t he just say ‘yes’? Why did unnecessary words extend everything he said?

‘The best I can do, first class, is two hundred and seventeen – and that’s via Preston.’

‘What’s standard?’

‘Standard is one zero nine.’

‘I think I’ll go standard.’

‘I would. But I can’t book you a seat, I’m afraid. You should be all right, though – it’s not the school holidays.’

‘Thank goodness. It will be soon.’

‘Don’t say that – they’ve only just gone back.’

They talked for another two minutes. They talked about the East Coast line, and the speed restrictions that were still in place because of the old, crumbling infrastructure. Ultimately, though, the transaction ended. The card worked, and the tickets were there before him.

‘Thank you,’ said Michael. ‘You made that very easy.’

‘Not at all.’

Should he now write to the train company, and express his appreciation? He wrote so many letters in his mind, so the phrases were always ready: The service I received today was, by your standards perhaps, merely professional. For me it was outstanding.

He liked to avoid hyperbole, but he wanted to share his humble gratitude.

Your salesman couldn’t have known, or, Your saleswoman no doubt meets people like myself every day. However, may I say the interaction I experienced… the friendly and courteous service, as if I was the only customer that mattered, as if finding me that particular item was his or her most important duty – I find it astonishing that your staff routinely treat people with such… What?

He could not write or even say the word ‘love’ because it wasn’t, and his own idiocy silenced him again.

‘Bye now.’

The man nodded.

It was love, though, in a way. It was a generalised love, which focused specifically on him just for a moment. Impersonal, except it was received so personally.

The people in retail were genuine servants, and he loved them because they probably didn’t realise how many lives they saved every day. The smile, and the encouragement to have a good afternoon – or the quiet, tender ‘take care’ offered by boys, girls, men, women… it brought tears to his eyes.