The reply had come in less than a week. The company was grateful for his message, but: We have no control over the routine communications system on individual stations. We have therefore forwarded your communication to the operations department.

Michael had gone to the library and researched that department. He found details for a first point of contact.

I expect by now you will have received my email…

I wonder if you have received an email that was forwarded to you…?

I am hoping to communicate with you about something that on one level is very trivial, but – on another – fundamental to how our railways run and how people use them. It is a small thing…

He had a vision of young men and women in the equivalent of a call centre, sitting at computers with headsets over their ears. The company would have outsourced the passenger-comment franchise, or whatever it was called, and those working would undoubtedly be on minimum wage. He had spoken to three workers in the customer-service department, about other things – and they always gave their names.

‘My name is Stefan, how can I help you today?’

Michael explained – and this had been another incident, that had happened to him late one night the previous year. It came back to him now so clearly, and he closed his eyes. On that occasion he’d been in Southampton, having booked his return in advance for just five pounds. The train had arrived early. The carriage he’d stepped into had the most terrible smell, for it was nearly eleven o’clock at night and there were fast-food wrappers strewn around the tables. There was another smell over the top of that, though – much more distinctive.

‘Don’t tell me,’ laughed Stefan. ‘Was it dog shit?’

In fact, he hadn’t said anything of the sort: Michael would amuse himself, sometimes, by imagining what call-centre people wished they could say, because it was clear that Stefan worked to a script. Michael knew that he had been trained never to be facetious – the poor man wasn’t allowed even to interrupt.

‘Don’t tell me,’ he might have said. ‘Someone had pissed themselves, or puked? Vomit, perhaps? Tell me everything, Michael.’

The man sounded Polish, Romanian or Czech. What journey from the east had he made, in order to find himself hunched over a console listening to a fifty-six-year-old man recalling his experience on a stationary train in Southampton?

‘It was a smell of permanent marker,’ said Michael.

It had reminded him of school.

‘Right,’ said Stefan – listening carefully.

‘It’s unmistakable, isn’t it?’ continued Michael. ‘So I looked up and down and I saw that two of the tables had been vandalised. With graffiti, you see – from the marker pen.’