I went to Southampton today. An exciting adventure involving a ferry that couldn't sail because of some problem with a concrete mixer lorry and a Peugeot consorting too near the doors, and then a train ride.

Normally I like travelling by train - it's relaxing provided you ensure you travel off-peak. And it promised to be so today, as I stood soaking up the sun on Brockenhurst platform. Then, as the train pulled in, a woman pushed in front of me, pulling a suitcase on wheels that clipped my leg. The train stopped and she pressed the door release. Nothing happened. She jabbed at it furiously with a finger nail painted a ghastly coral pink to match her suitcase and toenails. Nothing happened for several moments, during which I fear for the paintwork. The poor cow obviously didn't realise that the driver had to put on the handbrake AND take a bite from the sandwich that had been slithering over his dashboard since Poole.

Eventually the door opened and she clambered aboard without waiting for the passengers to get off. They descended, muttering. Still wearing my "Most Serene Person on the Station" hat, I got on and tried to enter the carriage on the left.

And just as I did, the automatic doors slammed shut, sandwiching my bosom between them. Believe me, it is not easy trying to locate the illuminated arrow button when your eyes are watering and it has disappeared somewhere down under. The man behind me made sympathetic noises but clearly didn't have the nerve to offer to locate the door button, leaving me to fumble around like a teenage lad on his first date.

Now I have sore bits. In fact, I have such a large bruise in a place the sun doesn't normally shine that I am considering unearthing my collection of felt-tip pens and trying to pass it off as an exotic tattoo.

Forget "Let the train take the strain'. I am now going to devote some thought to an alternative slogan for rail travel - I like to keep abreast of this sort of thing.