Four journeys, one verdict.

1. Monday, the 7:12. Got as far as the Count being sentenced to the attic. Man opposite spread a newspaper across both our tray tables and I said nothing, as is traditional. Forty pages, standing.

2. Wednesday, held at Slough. Twenty-five minutes for a signalling fault at Hayes, which makes no geographical sense until somebody has explained it to you about eight times. Got through the whole business with the bees.

3. Friday, 18:48. Fell asleep before Maidenhead with the book open on my knee and woke up with a page-shaped crease in my cheek. No progress.

4. Sunday, the slow one that stops everywhere. Finished it between Ealing Broadway and the tunnels, with the light going and the window doing that thing where it turns into a mirror.

Charming, weightless, slightly pleased with itself. Seven.