It’s really not that difficult to alight a train at the wrong stop, as I found yesterday when I was on my way to Brighton to see Jaimy, Jim and Lady Penelope, the latter being my new granddaughter who came into the world on the 18th May at six and a half weeks early (maybe she gets it from me!). however, my early exit from the Waterloo train actually made me late.

Admittedly, I had been so excited at the prospect of meeting Penny Sweet Pea (I know I’m a bit “nappy-brained” at present) that I had less sleep than usual, and then there was the early start, and a change at Exeter, so I was fairly tired three and a half hours into the journey. But that’s not the main reason I alighted at Woking rather than Clapham Junction where I was to make the final change for the Brighton train on Platform 13.

Around thirty minutes before the expected time of arrival at Clapham Junction a new tranche of passengers boarded and I felt obliged to move over and share my table seat with the ginger bearded man who looked in my direction. I pulled my rucksack onto my lap to make room. It was rather cramped with the big bearded man beside me and the table was already filled with the computer and office paraphernalia being used by the lady opposite (who hadn’t made room for the other passengers). Then the bearded man brought out his computer and I felt even more hemmed in. My small, but heavy, case was in the rack aloft, as well as a large bag filled with new clothes and presents for Penny and I began to worry about getting out and pulling down my gear in time to disembark. The train was due to arrive at 11:36 and I would have twenty minutes to find Platform 13, assuming that the train was on time.

Actually, the windy weather overnight had brought down trees onto many lines but I didn’t know that so I wasn’t expecting our train to be running late; therefore I had no reason to assume that the stop we came to at around 11:36 was anything other than Clapham Junction.

“Is this Clapham Junction?” I asked the bearded man next to me.

“Yes, I think so,” he replied in a friendly manner. “Can I help you down with your luggage?”

He was a nice chap. He carried my bags to the door and made sure that I landed safely on the platform. Sadly, it was the wrong platform, which I discovered shortly when I asked a member of staff the direction of Platform 13.

“Ah,” the Indian man smiled apologetically, “this is Woking, not Clapham Junction, but don’t worry, there’s another train coming in six minutes!”

I could have kissed him – I might make it, I thought – then the news came over the loudspeaker:

“Logs on the line have delayed several trains. The train to Clapham will arrive within the next twenty minutes.”

Meanwhile the bearded man must have enjoyed the rest of his journey occupying the generous space afforded him by my hasty departure.

At last the Clapham train arrived. It was like “the slow boat to China” and I soon feared I’d not reach Clapham Junction in time for the next train to Brighton (at the other end of the phone Chris had found out all the times for me) and I might have to call Jim again to change his pick up time.

With only two minutes to spare at Clapham Junction I asked a guard for directions to Platform 13.

“You’ve made my day, Smiler,” the guard flirted.

“Will I make it?” I ignored his dashing smile (unusually for me) and felt panicked.

“I should think so,” he beamed.

Jim picked me up about fifty minutes later than we had planned originally and soon all the anxiety of day ended as, for the first time, my eyes beheld the wonder of tiny little perfect Penelope Pit-stop.