What I want to know is - why do the Strange Folk always sit next to me on the bus, or in this case, the train?

There I am, minding my own business reading a battered copy of my favourite book (‘The Persian Boy’ by Mary Renault) when Strange Bloke plonks down next to me, all 15 stone, acrylic golfing sweater and too-short khaki chinos of him. Squashing me into the window with his bulk and crucifying my sense of smell with his Avon aftershave, he leers in what he obviously considers a friendly and attractive manner.

‘Ooh, you’re nice, all in black,’ he breathes. I’m not kidding about this, it’s a true story. ‘D’you ever wear - boots?’

I lower my book and look at him, puzzled. ‘I’m sorry?’

‘Boots, you know - boots. Knee boots, leather high-heeled ones - or, or - thigh boots, long ‘uns. Boots. Oh yes. Hmm. Lovely.’

‘No,’ I state severely. ‘I don’t. Ever.’

‘I could buy you some,’ he offers hopefully. ‘Black ones, ter match yer outfit. With a nice high heel. Smashin’.’

‘No, thank you.’

‘Shame, a lovely woman like you, a lovely strong-minded woman. You’d look a treat in . . .’

‘No. I wouldn’t. I hate boots. They look common. I prefer flat sandals. Or trainers. Pink ones. If you’ll excuse me, this is my station’.

Which is how I came to be at Pudsey instead of Leeds and wrestling with the knotty problem of why They always sit next to me. Do I have a sympathetic expression? No, not judging by my photographs. Do I exude motherliness or an air of caring empathy? Not according to my friends who say I more resemble an ambulant thunder cloud than anything else (mostly due to myopia, in my own defence). Perhaps I look like a counsellor - but even if that’s true (ha ha, not bloody likely, as they say round here) would you confide your deepest, darkest secrets to a complete stranger on public transport on the vague off chance they might be employed by Relate? And if you did, isn’t that rather like asking the chap at the neighbour’s barbeque about your nasty rash because he was introduced as ‘Doctor’; after all, if he’s a medical doctor he’s off-duty and if not - well, he might be an astro-physicist, for all you know.

Kinky Boot Man aside, I’ve been told intimate details of dozens of people’s personal lives whilst on the trains and buses; a smartly-dressed businesswoman, all designer suit and discreet diamonds once told me her son’s father wasn’t the man she was married to but her Salsa Dance instructor and a young man confessed his passionate undying love for his older brother’s wife. A failed priest told me about his loss of faith and a Muslim girl her desire to run away from her strict parents and teach contemporary dance in London. An Art teacher recounted her affair with a handsome student and a married man his long term illicit liaison with a woman he considered beneath his social class but whom he couldn‘t break with because he loved her. A widowed builder once asked me if I thought his frequenting prostitutes was wrong given he needed physical intimacy but didn’t want to remarry as he had never stopped loving his wife, and a young girl asked if it was wrong to call off her wedding because she just wasn’t sure.

I wonder how many others this happens to; in these secular times, do solo travellers sometimes become a kind of priest or priestess, and the forced intimacy of a three hour train journey a vehicular confessional? I never judge, or make much comment at all. The need to unburden themselves must be so strong that these folk have to tell someone. Who better than a complete stranger they’ll never see again?

Kinky Boot Man was the weirder end of the spectrum, and I’m sure there are shall we say, professional ladies more than happy to don his choice of foot wear and be ‘strong-minded’ - for a fee. On the whole I don’t really mind chatting to people on trains. If I really want to be alone, I just use the ploy adopted by my friend Sandi Toksvig, the renowned comedienne. When a Strange Person asks if the seat next to her is taken, she chirps brightly ‘Only by Jesus!’. It’s amazing how often she has both seats to herself for the whole journey . . .