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First-class train ticket well worth it for sense of superiority

TRAVELLING first-class by train offers the priceless experience of being far better than one’s fellow man, a passenger has discovered. 

Jack Browne paid the extra for a first-class journey from London to Carlisle and is still coasting on the feeling of looking down on the hoi palloi from a position of pampered, exclusive comfort.

He said: “It began the moment the platform was announced and the herd began rushing and pushing to get their seats in cattle class, laden with bags, stinking of fast food. While I calmly strolled to my carriage, conveniently situated adjacent to the concourse.

“I had a table seat, obviously, amid a sea of peaceful emptiness. I was brought complimentary water. My phone charging, my legs outstretched, I was served hot porridge. On a train. Imagine such luxury.

“As we pulled into each station, the commoners on the platform would realise they were standing in front of my first-class carriage and hurry along to a more affordable location. That’s right, I thought. Away you go.

“The conductor passed deferentially through and I glimpsed the hell below, a nightmare of teens, backpackers, babies. Four laptops to a table. I raised my glass of Rioja to them as the doors closed again. Poor souls. Poor, standard souls.

“I arrived at my destination 49 minutes late but as a pre-eminent member of society perusing my complimentary Daily Telegraph. Not my normal paper, but its columnists really make a lot of sense.”

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Baby names, long emotional messages to men, unattainable life goals: what girls have in their phone notes

CAMERON, Ezra, Hector? 22 reasons why you’re emotionally dead and need therapy, Mark. Become size eight. A woman’s Notes app offers regrettable insights: 

Shopping lists

Begins ‘eggs, milk’ before collapsing into ‘stop eating like divorced man of 48’. Aspirational items like ‘miniature lemons’ and ‘agave nectar’ slip in, compiled during optimistic moments when the author is planning a total life change. Is never consulted in shops, where Frosties and Chardonnay are bought instead.

Life goals

‘Move to Italy’, ‘find signature scent’ and ‘stop letting bad text ruin week’ are all written at 1.17am after watching one reel of a woman in Oslo with linen bedsheets and a baker husband named Lars. Soon, goals like ‘heal’ and ‘set boundaries’ slip to smaller goals like ‘do washing’ and ‘cancel Apple TV’. Even those don’t happen.

Baby names

At least 45 are listed despite the owner being single, exhausted and swearing off dicks in every sense. Divided into categories like ‘cute for daughter in cardigan’, ‘fine for a ginger’ and ‘son/Labradoodle?’ Choosing a new Pope takes less thought. Any associated with exes, bitches at school or catastrophic Hinge dates are blacklisted.

Long emotional messages to men

The app should really bar any of these being cut-and-pasted into a text or e-mail. Every woman has drafted at least one 1,900-word essay beginning ‘I just think it’s funny how…’ before spiralling into a breakdown of an entirely unamusing situationship. It’s a forensic cross-examination of a man who, if he ever saw it, would close it without reading.

Topics for therapy

Essentially the same as the previous topic but directed inwards. Made up of bullet points written at 3am including ‘fear of abandonment?’, ‘self-sabotage?’ and ‘burn-out or need hair recolour?’ Will never be mentioned in therapy, because she wants her therapist to like her.

Wedding plans

A highly detailed plan for a wedding with the budget and logistical complexity of a coronation, with a blank space left for the groom. ‘Small and relaxed’ evolves into ‘mismatched satin’, ‘organic champagne towers’ and ‘everyone cries but elegantly’. ‘Custom, nun-made veil’ and ‘find calligrapher URGENT’ are added.

Doomed attempts at creative writing

At some point every girl has written the first line of what she believed would become a profound bestselling novel. Usually this happens after two glasses of wine, a minor setback and a Greta Gerwig film. It begins ‘The city hummed beneath her like a wounded animal’, shortly followed by ‘film adaptation: Anya Taylor-Joy as me? or Sadie Sink?’

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