It’s 8pm and I’m sitting in the main section of the carriage. A weathered, middle-aged man in a tracksuit and peak hat is swaying around by the doors, muttering. I watch him out of the corner of my eye as he ambles over.
“How’s it going?” He slurs.
“Yeah good mate.”
The train soon shudders to a stop, the doors open and he springs out like some manic racehorse into the night.