Full of pasties and tea, on a wet Wednesday in February, I find myself on the second long train journey of the week. I’m on my way back home after spending a few days with my Mum and brother in Devon and Somerset. As always I had a great time with them and I should like to go more often, but the drawback is that they live so far away and this journey is a consequence of that. Mind you, they might justifiably say that it’s ME who lives too far from THEM!

I know I did a blog about the journey down, but it’s a long trip and I get bored so I thought I’d compare my experience of last Saturday with that of today. Just in case you are planning such a journey in the near future, and in the unlikely event that this coincides with you actually reading my blogs, this is what you can expect to see. And, in the first case, hear.

Brutally, I turned out some women from the seat that I had reserved when I got on at Tiverton Parkway. “Out! Out, I say, and take your luggage with you!” Pointing down the train like a great dictator. Those who know me well enough will realise that that’s how it happened only in my imagination. The reality was quite different and civilised, but of course I still have a scintilla of guilt accompanying me for the rest of the journey even though they found another seat.

The man in front of me is an estate agent whose mother has had a hip operation at 82, and she wants to go and live with him. I know this; the whole carriage knows it too; and so do you now. I can only assume that he wanted to share this information as his phone conversation with a work colleague was broadcast live to me and my fellow passengers.

A guy with a shaven head, wearing a football shirt that I couldn’t quite identify at first, is our resident drinker. There’s always one on any given long distance train, even at 11am. It eventually transpires that the football shirt is that of North Shields, so it looks like I will be enjoying his company all the way to Newcastle.

Our football fan and estate agent were among the many who studiously ignored the homeless guy who got on at Bristol Temple Meads. And believe me, there was some top-notch quality ignoring going on.

With long hair, a tatty but clean coat and half a bottle of milk in hands, he stood in the aisle and politely asked for everyone’s attention while he explained that someone had stolen the tent he was living in outside the station last night and he had nowhere else to go. He stressed that he didn’t want anyone to feel uncomfortable or obliged to do so, but if we could spare some cash for him to get something to eat he would be grateful.

Of course, despite his best efforts, a lot of people felt uncomfortable and obliged and the majority of his audience found fascination in the scene outside the window (a disused goods yard) while he was speaking. I had just 75p in my pocket but he was welcome to it. I expect he was kicked off the train before Cheltenham, but I hope he gets, at the very least, a decent meal out of his request.

This train is made up of four carriages, not the five it should be. As was the case the last time I got on, there is one carriage missing. Again, it’s coach E. Again, people are having to stand. It’s probably the same train. (That’s one for all you train nerds, as well as any regular rail commuters who would like another reason to complain about the organisation).

We went very slowly through a station painted purple and white. Bournville! Land of chocolate, and by the looks of it, Peaky Blinders. I’d risk being beaten up for a bar of whole nut, I’m not ashamed to admit. I’ll stop off here one day.

Our estate agent got off at Birmingham. Serves him right. A crisp cruncher got on at Derby, and as happened on the way down, sat right behind me and commenced her attack on my senses. She had better finish them by the time we get to Sheffield or there may just be trouble.

The stations all have claims to fame around here. Cheltenham is “Home of Jump Racing.” Burton on Trent is proud to be “Gateway to the National Forest,” although it bears no evidence of this, sporting as it does a platform devoid of trees. Derby is home to “The University of…” er, I think it was Derby. Sheffield however doesn’t claim anything, although we know it’s home to snooker, The Human League, Sean Bean and two football teams, one of which is famously named after a day of the week. There must be something there to boast about surely?

Dozens of people get off at Leeds. So there must be something going on here. No, wait – dozens of people get on at Leeds too, and they’re different to the ones that got off. They’re bringing the outside in with them, and not all of them are guaranteed a seat so there’s an air of nervousness now…but we can relax. Everyone finds somewhere, without having to sit on someone else’s knee, and we move off on time. Phew.

I’ve not heard a peep out of our Resident Drinker as we approach York. In fact the behaviour of all the people on this train has so far been almost perfect (crisp cruncher excepted). But even that pales against the crime I’m witnessing now.

A man is reading The Daily Mail, quite openly, about three seats down. He is wearing a blue anorak and a disgusted expression, so beloved of that paper’s readership. If you see this man do not approach him. He may be dangerously tedious.

And so to York. Home of Nestle and Rowntrees. This journey is effectively a tour of sweet factories, which is alright by me. I wonder if I can get the train to divert via Carlisle, where they make Penguin biscuits? No. Apparently not. It was worth asking though.

The stations’ claims to fame seem to be getting more tenuous. Darlington is allegedly home to “Lingfield Point”. That might be a dance, or maybe a gymnastics move? Anyway they seem very proud of it whatever it is.

The train company have a process to follow for reporting any trouble on their system. They give you a number to ring or text, and they have a slogan which they repeat at every available opportunity to remind you. You can tell the tannoy team get embarrassed by doing that – they must lose count of all the times they have to repeat “See it. Say it. Sort it.” I feel for them.

Newcastle. Home to The Stottie and The Mags. In my humble opinion, the friendliest and most attractive city in the UK. Although that doesn’t extend to the girl who wouldn’t move her bag when I needed to sit down on the train to Prudhoe. Someone else did though and I’m ready for the last part of my journey home.

As we pull out of Newcastle, we are overtaken by a Cross Country train, looking all smug with itself. The destination on the rear reads “Plymouth.” It’ll be going past my Brother’s house in about 7 hours and my Mum’s an hour later. But by that time none of us will be awake.

Nice to know the trains will be.