I MADE sure I arrived at the station with 20 minutes to kill before my train left. I was in luck – a delayed 11.17 was just pulling onto the platform. I ran to greet it and squeezed myself into the last seat….

…Where I waited… and waited.

The guard apologised for the further delay: “Stay on the train and listen for further announcements,” he said. I needn’t have run….

The next announcement informed us that this train would not be running and we should all join the train on the adjacent platform. The six-carriage train on which we sat was full; three already half-full carriages awaited.

Suddenly, chaos, as well-groomed, well-heeled, well-suited executives leapt to their feet, grabbed their laptops and bolted across the platform, elbowing their way past frail old ladies and doddery old men in their eagerness to grab one of the remaining seats.

Then calm, as they sat, quietly pouring over spreadsheets, newspapers and emails, oblivious to the plight of those around them as the train departed amidst profuse apologies from the guard.

But they were, after all, the wealth creators, with jobs that warranted a seat on the 11.17.

Their fellow travellers were mere scroungers, travelling on discount tickets and living off state pensions and benefits. Darwin needn’t have travelled to the Galapagos Islands – he could have observed the survival of the fittest on any overcrowded Southwest commuter train.

We used to all be ‘passengers’ – fellow travellers sharing an uncomfortable journey. United together we faced poor heating, overcrowding, drafts and delays; the monolith British Rail, rekindling a wartime spirit as together we faced a common adversary.

Today we are individual customers, each paying a different price for the same journey and each equally entitled to our money’s worth and, at the very least, a seat for the King’s Ransom we paid for our tickets.

The return journey was a doddle by comparison. Again, I arrived with time to spare, found my train and, with a smug smile of self-satisfaction, settled into one of the seats at the end of the carriage with acres of legroom.

On time, we were about to leave when the guard escorted a rather harassed mother, complete with two toddlers and an overloaded pushchair into the carriage. Memories of my own struggles with young children flooded back. ‘Have my seat,’ I offered, ‘there’s space here for a pushchair.’ The guard seemed surprised. ‘It’s no problem,’ I said. ‘We’ve all been there’. Standing up I looked for another seat. ‘Take one in first class,’ he said. ‘There’s plenty of space.’ Catapulted into the comfortable realm of the business executive, I felt discomfort at being treated as a customer, when all I’d done was behave like a simple passenger.