THERE’S nothing quite like travelling on a train for sitting back, taking in the changing landscapes, dipping in and out of a book and indulging in a nap.

I enjoy train travel, especially on long distances, as (in theory) it’s more relaxing than driving and you see more of the country than you do on a soulless motorway. The rail journey to Edinburgh, along the Northumbria coastline, is particularly delightful. And Settle to Carlisle by steam train is one of the loveliest journeys in the world.

There is something irresistibly romantic about railway stations - not the big, noisy urban ones full of coffee shop chains, I mean the old smalltown ones with hanging baskets and tearooms, where reunited couples embrace on the platform, or departing sweethearts lean tearfully out of train windows, waving goodbye. The kind of place where you might find Perks the cheery porter, or Celia Johnson and Trevor Howard gazing at each other over a pot of tea, bristling with unspoken passion and forbidden longing.

Of course modern train travel in this country is nothing like that. If you’re incredibly lucky, and the railway gods are smiling down on you, you might just get from A to B on time, in a seat, with no hiccups along the way.

That rarely happens to me. Nine times out of 10, whenever I travel by train, the railway gods are nowhere to be seen and there is inevitably some kind of delay, cancellation or hold-up en route. I have come to expect it.

Travelling by train in other European countries, I have marvelled at the efficiency, speed and comfort of the rail services. It is often a very different story here in the UK.

Travelling to the south coast last week, the train I was booked onto was cancelled in Leeds. No explanation offered. When I enquired about the next train, the stony-faced woman at the information desk said it would be in half an hour and there would “probably” be seats available. Two of her colleagues walked by, swearing loudly at each other. Not quite Perks and his friendly banter...

I’d lost my seat reservation but there were a few spare seats, and the half-hour delay to London didn’t affect the rest of my journey too much. Coming back, a few days later, was a different story.

I arrived at London King’s Cross early, with time to buy a coffee and a have a wander. Keeping an eye on the screens, I noticed that all the Leeds trains were eventually cancelled. The one I’d booked was ‘on time’ then ‘delayed’ then, inevitably, ‘cancelled’. The next one was delayed but eventually set off, an hour after I was meant to go. Needless to say, it was packed, and I stood up, miserably, for most of the journey. With all the standing around I’d done at Kings Cross, I’d been on my feet for over five hours by the time I finally got home. My train ticket seemed particularly over-priced as I reflected on an exhausting day of travel.

Now, I’m a modern, independent woman. I pay my own bills, I do my own decorating, I take the bins out, I unblock drains and I lift spiders out of the bath. But if any of the men sitting on that packed train - too engrossed in their ‘phones and laptops to notice anyone around them, including the women of various ages standing up for over two hours - had offered me their seat, I might just have taken it.

Chivalry, it seems, is dead. Maybe it’s classed as sexual harassment to offer your seat to a woman these days. We’re so scared of offending each other that we ignore each other instead. I think it’s a shame. I quite like a man to open a door for me, or pull out a seat for me. It’s not offensive, it’s good manners. Just ask Trevor Howard.

* Time to get tough on invasion of the molluscks

THERE is nothing I hate more than slugs. I have a vague memory of picking one up, as a young child, mistaking it for a crayon, and have been horrified by them ever since.

Now, to my dismay, they're invading my home. Nearly every time I go in the kitchen, a horrid brown slug is making its way across the floor. I chuck them out and they come back. It's probably the same one each time.

Much as I hate to kill God's creatures, I'm going to have to use slug pellets, or salt, before the horrid slimy thing ends up an unwelcome pet.

* 'Feeling Cursed' with those back-to-work blues...

YOU know that toe-curlingly awful phrase “Feeling Blessed” much used on social media by people boasting about their marvellous lives? Well, I was the opposite of “Feeling Blessed” when I returned to work on Monday after a week off.

I’d barely set foot out of bed when I discovered I had no hot water or heating. I didn’t feel very “blessed” trying to wash my hair in cold water. Then someone drove into the back of me on my way to work...

I arrived at work to discover my computer system had been ‘updated’, resulting in the loss of several documents I’d stored. I tried to re-set various accounts, between endless tasks fired at me from all angles, but, frustratingly, my password wasn’t recognised. And I had 1,100 emails to trawl through. More a case of “Feeling Cursed”.